


Last Seen

by EllieSaxon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, I promise a happy ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/pseuds/EllieSaxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John was absent from school one day, and didn't answer any of Sherlock's texts, Sherlock worried he'd done something to upset his best friend. Then Sherlock went over to John's house, and he wished John was mad at him. John wasn't ignoring Sherlock, he wasn't mad, he wasn't upset, John was gone.</p><p>Vanished, missing...gone. </p><p>Sherlock had to find him</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> Finally the fic I have been struggling to write FOREVER! Seriously, sometimes I'd only write 50 words in a day. It's been an adventure.
> 
> This is NOT a WIP, I have all the chapters written. I will be posting as I proofread and edit them (aiming for every other day)
> 
> Not beta'd. Not Brit-picked. I did my best to edit this, but stuff falls through the cracks. All errors are my own, apologies.

It was just another day, just the start of another term, granted it was the start of the last term before university, but still just another school day. Walking through the front gates shouldn’t have made Sherlock so nervous. No, nervous wasn’t the right word. Anxious; for the first time in his nearly thirteen years of schooling, Sherlock Holmes was anxious to get to class. He was anxious to sit in his normal seat towards the back of his home room, and he was anxious to turn to his left and see John Watson, his best friend of nearly seven years. Only, when Sherlock got to his homeroom and took his seat, there was nobody sitting to his left, John’s seat was empty.

No matter, it would not have been the first time John missed homeroom. Besides, he was out late the night before; Sherlock could hardly fault him for being a bit late this morning. Sherlock’s anxiety would just have to last an additional twenty minutes, until he saw John in Chemistry next period. And so Sherlock sat, blocking out the infernal chattering of his peers, and the pointless announcements; instead focusing on what he was going to say to John when he saw him, what he was going to do. He thought about what John might say, what he might do. Really, the extra twenty minutes might just have been a blessing in disguise, giving him extra time to prepare. Only, when homeroom ended and Sherlock made his way to the Chemistry lab, John wasn’t there.

Slipping his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock quickly shot off a text before class began.

_“On school days, you’re generally expected to show up for class. – SH”_

 

Sherlock tried to reassure himself that everything was fine, that John had missed a class or two in the past. John had sounded a bit congested the night before and might just be sleeping it off, yet he couldn’t quite silence that small voice in the back of his head telling him something wasn’t right. After all, John usually made a point of letting Sherlock know if he was out sick, so Sherlock could pick up his assignments.

 

Sherlock was so lost in his thoughts he failed to notice Ms. Keller, his teacher, had stopped talking, and the students were breaking off into pairs. It wasn’t until he heard someone speaking to him that he came out of his head.

“So, how about it?” Asked the kid, transfer student, Seamus or Kevin or something, it didn’t matter.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, finally looking up, annoyed at being interrupted from his thoughts.

“I was ah… I was just asking if you wanted to partner up for the lab.” The kid said, clearly a bit nervous

“No.” Sherlock scowled, he didn’t need a partner, John was always his partner. John not being there at the moment didn’t change anything.

“Oh, ok… Why not?” Seamus or Kevin asked, not taking the hint Sherlock wanted to be left alone.

“Because… whatever your name is…”

“Jay. My name… my name’s Jay.”

“Because,  _Jay_ .” Sherlock emphasized. “John’s my partner, so I don’t need another one.”

“But he’s not here now.” This Jay said, sounding confused. “I mean,… he’s absent, so what’s wrong with having a new partner to play with?... I’m sorry, that was weird. It sounded way cooler in my head.” He laughed sheepishly, an embarrassed blush coloring his cheeks.

Ignoring the half-assed attempt at a joke, Sherlock continued to glower at Jay. “There has always been an even number of students in this class, meaning you’ve always had a partner before. And since there are an odd number today, there needs to be one person working on his or her own. I am more than happy to take on that burden. Now, if you’d please go work with Janine, with whom you have partnered for the previous three projects, and leave. Me. Be.” He said with a sense of finality.

“Oh, um, ok. Sorry to bother you.” Jay sputtered, before quickly turning around and hurrying to sit next to a brunette girl, who could barely contain her laughter.

The rest of the period went by smoothly. Sherlock finished the lab in half the allotted time, even in his distracted state. And the entire time his phone remained silent, no reply from John.

 

_“Chemistry was a waste, you didn’t miss much. Do you think you’ll make it to Biology? – SH”_

 

*******

 

John didn’t make it to Biology, and according to Molly, he hadn’t showed up to English either. By the time lunch rolled around, two hours later, Sherlock had sent John an additional two texts, both of which went unanswered.

 

“He might not have charged his phone, Sherlock. You know how he lets the battery run out.” Molly said calmly, as Sherlock fidgeted with his silent phone. She had a point; it wasn’t uncommon to see John charging his phone during class, having forgotten to plug it in the night before.

“Just watch, you’re going to go over to his house after class, he’s going to open the door looking all gross and sick, you’ll call him an idiot for not answering your messages, and everything will be fine.” Ever since she grew out of her crush on him several years ago, Molly Hooper really had gotten rather good at talking sense into Sherlock when he let his thoughts get too far away from himself, especially when John was involved. “Here, I wrote down the reading and some notes from English for you to give to him.” She smiled, handing Sherlock a sheet of paper.

Accepting the page of notes, Sherlock gave a halfhearted smile. “You’re probably right.”

“I  _am_ right, Holmes!” Molly teased.

Sherlock wanted to believe her, wanted to believe everything was alright, but what if she was wrong? What if he got to John’s house and John slammed the door in his face, or didn’t open it at all? Ignoring texts was a clear sign someone didn’t want to talk to you, even Sherlock knew that.

“You think he’s avoiding you, don’t you?” Molly sounded exasperated. “You had me message him at break, remember? I haven’t heard back.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. John would know I told you to do it.”

“Alright Sherlock, you’re being ridiculous. Is something going on? Why would John be avoiding you? Did you two get into an argument or something?”

“Not that I know of, no.” Sherlock shrugged dismissively, not wanting to go into  _that_ possible issue. Molly meant well, but she did sometimes have a tendency to get overly involved when she thought a friend was in need.

“You’re a genius, Sherlock. Don’t be an idiot.” Molly sighed.

Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to reply to the insult wrapped in a compliment, the bell rang, and lunch ended, leaving Sherlock no less on edge as he made his way to Maths.  

 

Thankfully Maths was his last class of the day, so of course it was the longest. Having mastered differential and integral calculus by age ten, Sherlock only took cursory notes as he watched the seconds and minutes slowly tick by. Finally, after what felt like hours, class was over, and Sherlock was out the door before the bell had even finished ringing.

Stopping at his locker only long enough to grab his Chemistry and Biology binder, Sherlock was off school grounds and headed for John’s house in record time, sending yet another quick text as he went.

 

_‘Molly insists you not fall behind, so I come bearing notes. Sorry – SH’_

 

*******

 

John lived only a fifteen minute walk from the school, Sherlock made it there in seven. What Sherlock saw as he approached the Watson home made his blood run cold, a police car pulling away from the curb and heading down the street.

Without a second thought, Sherlock raced up the front steps, and began pounding on the door. After a few seconds the door swung open, revealing the solid, stocky frame of John’s father.

“What do you want, kid?” Mr. Watson grunted, clearly irritated to see Sherlock standing at the door.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, his voice breaking, trying to look past Mr. Watson who blocked his way. “Where’s John? Is he alright!?”

Mr. Watson sneered and tried to close the door on Sherlock.

“Where is he?!” Sherlock demanded.

“I don’t know.” Mr. Watson snapped. “The little shit ran away.”

“Ran aw…” Finally pushing past Mr. Watson, Sherlock sprinted up the stairs, and burst into John’s bedroom. The room was as spotless as ever, John always kept it looking pristine. Looking around, Sherlock felt his heart sink. The bed was perfectly made, John’s laptop was no longer sitting on his desk, his backpack was missing, all his school work and books neatly piled on the desk. Turning around quickly, Sherlock tore open the wardrobe door to find John’s duffel bag gone, some clothes noticeably missing from John’s dresser.

It was like the earth stopped turning, Sherlock could almost feel the ground crumble from beneath his feet. John Watson, Sherlock’s friend, Sherlock’s best friend, was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I wrote the word 'maths'. It felt so WRONG!!
> 
> Let me know what you think, good or bad, I'm always looking for ways to improve!


	2. Disappeared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World crumbling at his feet, Sherlock tries to get answers

Sherlock’s head spun, he felt lightheaded, almost faint. John was gone, he was missing.

“What, you didn’t believe me?” Came Mr. Watson gruff voice from behind Sherlock. “I told you, he’s done a runner.”

Whipping around, Sherlock leveled John’s father with a glare. “What happened? I need to know exactly what happened. When did you discover John was missing?” Sherlock and Mr. Watson were barely civil at the best of times, more often than not they just ignored each other, but time was of the essence. If Sherlock was going to find John, he needed to know everything.

“What do you mean? Weren’t you listening? John left, he ran away.”

“I heard you the first time.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “But I need to know what happened, I need to know why. How do you know he ran away? Did you two argue? When did he leave? Did he give any hint as to where he went?”  _And why didn’t he tell me_ , Sherlock thought to himself.

“No we didn’t fight. I haven’t even seen him since yesterday morning, when he went off with you. And I don’t appreciate you barging into my house, questioning me, demanding answers. I don’t owe you anything.”

Sherlock could feel his nerves wearing thin, could feel the panic set in, he didn’t have time for Watson stubbornness. “So why are you insisting he ran away? What happened?... Please, I need to know” He added softly.

Mr. Watson’s shoulders sagged, and took a deep, resigned breath. “His alarm went off this morning, and it didn’t stop. When I came in to tell him to shut it off and get to school, the room was like this. John was gone, and there was a note saying he was leaving.”

Sherlock’s head was swimming, processing everything he saw, everything he heard, trying to reconcile it with everything he knew. He didn’t know where to begin, what to think. A note, he had to see the note.

Suddenly his thoughts caught up with him. “This morning? You’ve known John’s been missing since this morning? Why were the police only leaving now, when you’ve known John’s been missing for HOURS?!” Sherlock was fuming.

“I had to get to work.” Mr. Watson said casually, like he didn’t even care that his son was missing. “It’s not like a few extra hours was going to make him any less of a run away. Hell, he’s an adult now, he’s free to leave any time he wants. I didn’t  _have_ to report it at all,  _I’m_ being responsible,  _I’m_ playing it safe.”

Responsible? Safe? Sherlock couldn’t look at the man, let alone be in the same room as him. Mr. Watson knew John was gone, and did nothing for hours. John was missing, he could be in danger, he could be hurt. Sherlock had to get out, he had to find John.

As Sherlock raced from the house, he turned his anger toward himself. Why did he let his insecurity get the better of him? When John didn’t show up to school that morning, Sherlock  _knew_ something was wrong, but he did nothing. Instead of going to check on John, he sat through pointless classes, and worried that John was avoiding him. John had been taken, he would never run away, Sherlock knew that much. John was God knows where, and Sherlock did nothing. He was no better than Mr. Watson.

 

******

 

Before he knew it, Sherlock was at the local precinct. They lived in a relatively “low crime” area, and the station was never really busy, but there were still a fair few people waiting to speak with the desk sergeant. Sherlock stormed past them all; the two noise complaints, the stolen jewelry that wasn’t really stolen, and picking up a brother from the drunk tank, could all wait.

“I need to speak with someone immediately about the John Watson… disappearance.” Sherlock said, choking back the small sob on the last word, as he practically crawled onto the front desk.

There was a chorus of noise behind him. “Settle. Everyone just settle.” The desk sergeant said in attempt to placate the people who took none too kindly to being pushed aside. “I’m sorry young man, but I’m going to have to ask you to please wait your turn.”

“Are you deaf!? My – my friend, is missing, I can’t wait. I need to know what you people are doing about finding him.”

“Alright, fine. Did you say your friends name was John Watson?” The officer sighed, and once again had to calm the renewed upset.

“Yes, John Watson. An officer was just at his house not an hour ago, 1548 West Barlow Road.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Please take a seat, and I’ll find someone to speak to you.”

He was too anxious to just sit and wait, so Sherlock paced. Walking back and forth in front of the benches inside the station entrance, Sherlock went over everything he knew, searching for anything that stood out as wrong, looking for any clue as to what happened to John. Everything, absolutely everything, pointed to John being kidnapped, and not having run away. Finally, after an agonizing ten minutes of waiting, pacing, and worrying, a young police officer, chestnut hair pulled back in a tight braid, approached Sherlock.

“Hello, are you the young man asking about John Watson?” Sherlock nodded. “I’m PC Andrews, I spoke with Mr. George Watson.” The young officer said, offering her hand to Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said in way of greeting, gripping Andrews’ hand briefly, then dropped it. “I need to know everything you’ve got on John’s disappearance. I need to know everything you’re doing.”

“So you’re Sherlock Holmes.” Andrews hummed. “Come on, let’s talk in here.” She said, guiding Sherlock into a small side room, some sort of family interview room.

“What are you doing about finding John?” Sherlock asked before even taking a seat on the threadbare couch. “I want to be involved in the investigation. I know John better than anyone else, I can help.”

“Mr. Holmes, Sherlock, could you please sit down?” Sherlock knew that tone; it was the ‘about to give upsetting news’ tone the police used.

Sherlock slowly lowered himself down to sit. “What is it?” he breathed.

“There’s probably not going to be much of an investigation.”

“WHAT?! WHY NOT?!” Sherlock yelled, bolting back up.

Andrews’ voice remained calm, speaking slowly, she was obviously well trained. “Because John is eighteen years old, a legal adult, and all the evidence points to him having left of his own free will. We’ve made a note of it, but that’s pretty much all we can do.”

“Evidence? What evidence? You’re just taking Mr. Watson’s word for it! Are you blind? John would  _never_ just leave!”

“Please sit down, just try to breathe and calm down a bit.” Andrews kept her voice steady, not raising the volume in the face of Sherlock’s near hysterics. “I know he’s your friend, and though you may not like it, these things do sometimes happen.”

“But  _you_ don’t know John!  _I_ know him, and  _I_ know he wouldn’t do this!”

“He left a note; his father confirmed it’s his handwriting. There was no sign of struggle in his room or anywhere else in the house. Some clothing was missing, along with only his valuables.” Andrews listed. “I’ve heard you have some experience with investigations and solving mysteries, what does all that sound like to you?”

“In conjunction with everything I know about John Watson?” Sherlock bit. “That he was kidnapped, and it was staged to look like he ran off.”

PC Andrews gave a heavy sigh before standing up again. “I’ll be back in a moment. I’m going to get you something to drink to calm you a bit. Maybe a snack too, you’re shaking.”

Sherlock  _was_ shaking. He hadn’t eaten lunch, and the low blood sugar mixed with the terror he felt not knowing what happened to John, and the anger directed towards the police, not taking John’s disappearance seriously. Sherlock felt as though he were going to be sick. Sitting back down, Sherlock let his head hang down between his legs as he tried to regulate his breathing. He needed to clear his mind; he needed to focus, because if the police weren’t going look for John, Sherlock was going to have to find him on his own.

He had just about got his breathing back to normal, when PC Andrews reappeared, a bottle of water and a couple of granola bars in hand.

Ignoring the granola, and taking the water, Sherlock downed almost half the bottle in one go. Andrews prattled on, something about how she’s sure that in a few days, John will probably contact him, let him know what was going on, and everything would be fine. Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, too focused on his next steps, how he was going to go about locating, rescuing, John.

Sherlock had finished his water, and was about to ask for another bottle, when there came a knock on the door frame and Sherlock’s mother stepped into the room.

“Mum? What are you…” Sherlock started, before turning to face PC Andrews. “You called my mother?! I’m not some little child who needs his  _mummy_ to come take care of him. I don’t need to be handled.” He sneered.

“Oh Honey.” Mrs. Holmes said softly, coming to sit next to Sherlock. “I’m not here to handle you. The sergeant did give me a call when you showed up, and told me a bit about what happened. I came to make sure you’re alright. I’m your mum, it’s part of my job.” Her smile a bit sad, clearly worried about her youngest son. At this point, Andrews excused herself, leaving mother and son alone. 

“I’m fine.” Sherlock said brusquely. “I’m not the one you all should be concerned about.”

“I know, Darling. I know. And I am worried, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. At least not here”

“Nothing we can do?!” Sherlock immediately pulled away from his mother.

“Not here, sweetheart. They’re not going to listen to you now. Let’s go home, and we can figure where to go from there.”

Sherlock wanted to argue, wanted to plant his feet firmly on the ground and refuse to move until everyone was taking John’s kidnapping seriously, until the police made finding John their number one priority. Sherlock wanted to stay, but he found himself letting his mother guide him out of the station, and towards her car. It wasn’t until they were in the car and already on the way back home, that Sherlock realized his mother must have left work early, she always had classes late into the evening on Mondays. He really should have thanked her, but he couldn’t really muster the energy to speak, too drained from the afternoon. And so the ride passed in silence, Sherlock catching his mother occasionally glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

 

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Sherlock said quietly, standing in their front hall, not moving, not looking up at his mother. 

“Of course I believe you, Sherlock.” Mrs. Holmes’ voice was soothing, as she took Sherlock’s book bag and hung up his coat, and lead him into the living room.

“No you don’t. You believe the police, you think John did run off.” Sherlock hated being lied to, hated being handled, and that was exactly what his mother was doing. Sherlock wasn’t fragile, he didn’t need to be mollycoddled.

“I don’t  _like_ to think he left, and it doesn’t seem like something he’d do, but…” Mrs. Holmes spoke carefully.

“But what?” Sherlock demanded, trying to put as much distance between him and his mother as the couch would allow.

Moving down the couch, Mrs. Holmes reached out to take Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I know he never liked to talk about it, but we all know how miserable John was at home. With his father’s drinking, the way they argued, we could all see how much he hated it there, especially after his mum…” She paused. “Then Harry moved out. And the police did say there was a note, written by John.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Sherlock cried. “Everything else, all the other evidence, everything, says John didn’t run away. He was kidnapped!”

“Alright Sherlock, alright. Lay it all out for me.  _Prove_ to me that John didn’t run away.” She was doing it again. Ever since Sherlock was a child, his mother made him argue his conclusions before she told him she believed him. It was infuriating, but if she was doing it now, that meant she was partway convinced, it was a good sign.

“Because this is John, and John would never leave without telling me. I’m his… I’m his best friend. And after… He  _knows_ I would never turn on him, or turn him in. He’d tell me.”

“True. What else?” Mrs. Holmes prompted.

“Why would he leave now? We’re in our last term before graduation, we’re going to university in the fall. John’s smart, he’s going to university, he wouldn’t leave now, he’d tough it out. Besides, you and Dad have told him he’s always welcome to stay with us if he needed to, if things… got bad.”

“Or course we would. Is there anything else?”

“His alarm clock!” Sherlock blurted. “If John was going to leave, why would he set his alarm clock for school the next day? We’re coming off break, it’s not like it was pre-set.” Sherlock was breathing heavily at this point, no doubt in his mind, he could trust his instincts, he wasn’t wrong, he could focus now. “I know there’s more, but I need to get back in John’s room, I… I wasn’t paying close enough attention last time.”

“You’re right, Sherlock, you’re right. And we’re going to find him, son.” Came a voice from the door. Sherlock hadn’t even heard his father come in.

“Dad!” Sherlock jumped up, and rushed over to his father. “You heard? You and mum believe me? Does this mean you’ll help?”

“Of course we do.” Mr. Holmes said, looking to his wife who nodded back to him. “Where do you want to start?”

“The note. Mr. Watson said he found a note, said John wrote it. I didn’t see it before, I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinking. I got distracted. I need to see it!” For the first time in hours, since finding out John was gone, Sherlock felt hope bubble up within him. They were going to find John, he wasn’t in this alone.

“That shouldn’t be an issue. And I’ll put in a few calls to get access to CCTV. I can’t guarantee anything mind, but we can still search the footage.”

“We’re not going to find him on the streets, he’s obviously being held somewhere. And whoever took him went to the effort to make it look like he ran away, I doubt they’ve left too much to chance.” Sherlock babbled, more to himself than to his parents.

“Every little bit helps.” Mrs. Holmes said, trying to stop Sherlock’s pacing.

“Yes, yes, obviously. Come on, let’s get going. If we leave now, we might catch Andrews before she leaves and we can get a look at the note. Let’s get started.” Sherlock announced, moving to get his coat.

“No, no, no, no. Not right now, sweetie.” Mrs. Holmes said.

“What do you mean? We have to go now!” Sherlock didn’t understand, they had just told him they believed him, told him they would help him, and now they were stopping him.

“Not this instant we don’t. You’ve had a long day, you’re worked up, and you’re not thinking clearly.”

Sherlock wanted to yell, to push past her. “Mum, you’re being ridiculous! We need to go now when everything is fresh!”

“Your mother’s right, son. It’s going to take a while to get access to the footage, and permission from the police to let us see the note, and to open a proper investigation.” Mr. Holmes said.

“What you need now is to eat something, and get a good night’s rest. I’ll call the school to let them know you won’t be in tomorrow, and we can start first thing in the morning. I’m sure by then you’ll have all the OKs, and you’ll be fresh and ready to focus.” Mrs. Holmes added.

Sleep was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind at the moment, he slept the night before, he was fresh enough. And he didn’t need to eat, his already low appetite was practically nonexistent, he probably couldn’t keep any food down if he tried. Sherlock was focused now, with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he had to get started, he couldn’t wait until morning. But his parents stood their ground, and if there was one thing to know about Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, it’s that they picked their battles carefully, and as expected, their will won out.

 

*******

 

After barely managing to force down bowl of chicken soup and a couple slices of thick bread, Sherlock lay in his bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, itching to be out searching the streets. Refusing to let himself think about where John might be, what he might be going through at the moment, Sherlock found his mind wondering back to the previous evening, when he last saw John.

 

_John and Sherlock sat together, their backs against a large rock at what they’d liked to think of as ‘their spot.’ In truth it was just a secluded little patch of grass, hidden from view by some trees and shrubs, in the small park at the end of Sherlock’s street. But they’d had been coming to the spot for a couple of years, so it was theirs._

_"I just wish there was a way to start classes over the summer, or at least move in earlier.” John sighed._

_"Is it really that bad?” Sherlock asked, turning to face John properly. John’s home life was no secret, especially from him, and Sherlock hated it all the more that his hands were tied._

_“No, not really. No more than usual.” John gave Sherlock that half smile that went straight to his chest. “He’s checked out more often than not, so it’s not all that bad. I’m just getting tired of it, you know?”_

_Sherlock didn’t know, not really. His parents never ignored him for days on end, then suddenly rage at him for no reason other than the fact he was there. Sherlock hated that John knew, and that there was really nothing he could do other than offer John what he’d offered a dozen times before._

_"I don’t see why you’re so insistent on living in the dorms. I can find a flat with two bedrooms, then you can move in whenever you want. I’m sure we can find a place close to both schools.” The fact that they were going to separate universities bothered Sherlock, at least if they found a flat together, he’d be sure to see John every day, or nearabouts._

_“I don’t doubt it.” John laughed. “But I told you before, living on campus is cheaper. I can save my money, then second year I might be able to afford half the rent somewhere decent.”_

_"I don’t care if you can pay half.” Sherlock huffed. “Or decent for that matter. Isn’t it supposed to be a rite of passage or something, to live in a crap flat?”_

_“I know you don’t care, but I do. Why should you live somewhere crappy just for me? And I’m not going to pay anything less than half the rent, so don’t even try to argue.”_

_John really was annoyingly noble. Sherlock had to fight to suppress a smile. “Whatever makes you happy, John.”_

_“That’s the spirit.” John said. “Besides, with us going off to university, I’m sure you’ll have loads of handsome blokes just lining up to hang around with you. You wouldn’t want me about the flat distracting you, and accidentally driving them off.” He added with a half-hearted laugh, nudging Sherlock with his elbow._

_"Really John. I believe of the two of us, I’m the one who ruined multiple relationships for you.” It was true, John’s longest relationship only lasted a month. But was it really Sherlock’s fault that crime scenes with him were more interesting than movies and conversation with whichever girl took a shine to John that week?_

_“Nah, they were going to end anyway.” John mused. “You just hastened them along.”_

_“It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t want a line of handsome blokes to ‘hang out’ with.” Sherlock said quietly, feeling embarrassed. Truthfully, he just wanted John, he just needed John._

_“Seriously? Why not?”_

_“I just don’t.” Sherlock could feel his face start to heat up, he could only pray the dusk lighting hid his flush._

_“You don’t…” John said hesitantly. “You don’t have a thing for someone already, do you?”_

_Sherlock didn’t say a word, just made a non-committal noise, glancing up at John before looking back down at the ground. His face was on fire. He would give anything for the ground to upon up beneath him, and swallow him whole._

_“You do, don’t you? You don’t have to act all embarrassed by it. I think… I think it’s great.” John’s voice seemed to crack a bit on the word ‘great’. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of… wait, please don’t tell me it’s Victor. Granted he’s rather fit, but he’s such smarmy, brown nosing little git.”_

_“No John,” Sherlock said amused, “I don’t have feelings for Victor Trevor”_

_“Well thank God for that! I’d seriously worry about your judgment if you did!” John laughed. “Oh Christ, please not that prick Wilkes either. I don’t know what I’d do if…”_

_Later, Sherlock would say he just couldn’t stand hearing John list possible boyfriends for him, but at that moment, and without really thinking, Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his mouth to John’s. The kiss, if you could really call it a kiss, was awkward. The press of mouths far too hard, so much so that Sherlock could feel his teeth knocking against John’s, even through their closed lips. After only a few seconds, Sherlock jerked backwards in a full panic. He had completely bollocksed everything up. Nearly seven years of friendship, ruined because of one stupid, impulsive act._

_He was just about to start stuttering out apologies, to try and salvage what he could of their friendship, when John surged forward, grabbing Sherlock by the back of the neck, and kissed him back. Unlike Sherlock’s shock and awe assault, this kiss was gentle, with just enough pressure that Sherlock could feel the softness and warmth of John’s lips against his. Almost immediately Sherlock began to kiss back, lips slightly parted, allowing them to move with John’s._

_After about a minute of the gentle give and take, lips breaking apart only to come back together again, John slowly leaned back, one hand still resting on Sherlock’s neck. “You have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that.” He sighed._

_"Really?” Sherlock breathed, resting his forehead against John’s._

_“Oh god, yeah. Ages.” John smiled before capturing Sherlock in another kiss._

_They kissed… and kissed, and kissed, and kissed, their lips moving in perfect sync, heads tilting for better access, arms wrapping around waists, pulling their bodies closer together. If it weren’t for the jagged rock at his back, and the cool dampness of the grass beneath him, Sherlock would have sworn it was all a dream. In truth, Sherlock had had several dreams that weren’t too far off from this scenario. But this was better than any dream, he could feel John’s compact muscles move underneath his jacket, could feel John’s hand tighten in his curls, and the slight scratch of John’s stubble against his cheek. Kissing John was like nothing Sherlock had ever experience, and now that he had, there was nothing on earth he’d rather be doing. Locked room mysteries and post mortem bruising patterns couldn’t hold a candle to the feel of John Watson’s tongue running along the seam of his lips and dipping into his mouth._

_Eventually Sherlock found himself stretched out on his side on the ground, facing John who lay next to him, his arm resting possessively around John’s waist._

_“Ages, huh?” Sherlock smiled._

_“Yep. Ages and ages.”_

_“So why didn’t you? As you can clearly see, you would have gotten no objections from me” Sherlock was unable to resist the urge to run his hand up and down John’s side._

_“Well if I had known it would have gotten this reception, I would have done it a long time ago.” Teased John. “But I honestly didn’t think you felt the same, you’ve always acted so above it all. And I could ask you the same, why didn’t you do something before?”_

_"What, and risk losing my only real friend? I don’t think so. I could hardly believe you actually liked being my friend, let alone that you could return my feelings.”_

_“So I guess we’re both idiots.” John said, kissing Sherlock again briefly. “And you have other friends.”_

_Sherlock hummed, eyes still closed from the kiss. “None as good as you though.”_

_“How long?” John asked, running a thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone. “When did you start having feelings for me?”_

_“Since I was thirteen.” Sherlock blushed._

_“Seriously?”_

_“Yeah. I mean, you’ve always been special, no one else has as much fun at crime scenes as me, and you despite what you say, you actually like my deductions, even when they go a bit too far. But in Year Ten, when you found out some of your other friends were picking on me, and ended your friendship with them, you picked me over them. I don’t know, no one ever cared for me like that, and I just started seeing you differently. Not to mention, you did cut an impressive figure in your football kit.” Sherlock added. “What about you, when did you start thinking of me as ‘more than a friend’?”_

_“What? Can’t you deduce it?” John teased, pulling Sherlock closer. “Fifteen for me; you refused to leave my side when mum got sick. I don’t know how I could have dealt with it all, the failed treatments, losing her, if it weren’t for you. I realized how indispensable, irreplaceable,  you are to me. It didn’t hurt that you finally hit your growth spurt, and it hit me just how gorgeous you were. You get even more gorgeous by the day to be honest, it’s not fair.”_

_John thought he was irreplaceable. Sherlock didn’t know what to say, so instead he rolled John onto his back, and let his kisses speak the words for him, pouring every last drop of the love he’d felt for the past four years, in to the slide of his lips against John’s._

_“And you say I’m the emotionally oblivious one,” Sherlock said, when he finally pulled away and settled along John’s side, “yet I figured out my feelings for you an entire year before you figured out yours.”_

_"That may be, smartass,” John frowned, feigning annoyance. “But you didn’t figure out I had feelings for you.”_

_“Well neither did you!” Sherlock protested._

_“Yes, but I’m not the mad genius who claims to be able to read anybody and everybody.”_

_“Very true, but I’ve never fully been able to read you. Like I said, you’re special.” Sherlock grinned, pulling John into another blissful kiss which quickly turned heated._

_Far too soon it was time to leave, as night had fully fallen, and both John and Sherlock had to return home._

_“Must we?” Sherlock whined, accepting John’s hand to pull him up._

_“Yes mad man, it’s late, and I want a full night’s sleep before term starts up again. And don’t worry,” John said, popping up on his toes to plant a quick peck to Sherlock’s lips. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow. I think you can survive not even nine hours without looking at my gorgeous mug. I believe in you.” He teased._

_“If you say so.” Sherlock huffed._

_"You can. Now, one more for the road.” John said, pulling Sherlock down into a long kiss. “I’m so glad I get to do that now.”_

_“Me too.” Sherlock grinned, he then watched John jump the fence towards his house, before turning to head home himself._

As blissful as they were, Sherlock quickly shook himself out of his memories. He couldn’t let that be the last time he saw John, he couldn’t just sit around. Time was of the essence, Sherlock had to find John, and he had to start searching immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course John is kidnapped the day after he and Sherlock finally get together. Gotta make John going missing even worse!
> 
> Next up, Sherlock starts the search.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think, and if you spot any errors!
> 
> (Side note: After some googling, I discovered there's apparently a Barlow Road in West Hempstead. That was a complete coincidence)


	3. Eliminate All Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to wait a moment more, Sherlock starts searching.

Everything was a haze, his vision blurred as his eyes tried to adjust and focus, his head groggy as it throbbed in pain, his limbs felt weak, barely able to move. Finally, after several minutes of opening and closing his eyes, John’s vision cleared and, struggling to sit up on his elbows, he was able to take in his surroundings, and fear took hold. He was in a cold, square room, though cement tomb would be a more apt description. Probably no more than 10 feet by 10 feet, the room was empty, save for the old twin mattress on which he was currently laying. Completely windowless, the only source of light was a harsh incandescent light bulb, recessed in the cold grey ceiling. Opposite John, and the only apparent means of escape, was a heavy looking metal door, a flap at floor level, and another about chest high. John was being held captive.

Carefully lowering himself back down on to the mattress, and with several deep, deliberate breaths, John attempted to calm his racing heart. Closing his eyes, John tried to think back, tried to remember what had happened to him, how he ended up in this cell. He had just got back from the park – back from Sherlock, he thought with a smile – the house was silent, either his father was already passed out, or not home. What was it? What happened next?… Changing! He was changing, getting ready for bed, when something moved behind him, and there was the sharp jab to his neck, and then nothing, everything went black. Looking down, John saw he was in his pajamas, still wearing socks, and his watch was still around his wrist. It had really happened, it wasn’t some twisted nightmare brought on by the stress of A-levels looming overhead, or graduation rapidly approaching, John had been kidnapped. He had been taken from his bedroom, and now he sat in his too thin pajamas, cold and alone, in a grey cinder block cell.

By some miracle his watch still worked, twenty after three, am or pm, John didn’t know and he didn’t care. Four hours or sixteen hours, it didn’t matter, John wasn’t going to sit around a moment longer making it easy on his captors. If John could give the London Metropolitan Police the slip, and he had on several memorable occasions, he could get out of here. Unfortunately, escape was easier said than done, and after yelling, and pounding on the door, on and off for several hours, John had only managed to make himself hoarse, and even more exhausted than when he first woke up. John was just about to give up, his hand throbbing, when he heard movement coming from the other side of the door, the sound metal scrapping. A door opening? A chair being moved? He couldn’t tell.

“Hello?” John called, his voice like gravel. “Is there somebody out there? I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Against the wall!” A gruff voice yelled back through the door.

Heart pounding, John felt himself getting stronger, this could be his one chance for answers. “Why am I here!? I haven’t done anything! Why are you holding me?! Where are we?!”

“If you want to take a piss, you’ll get against the fucking wall!”

Complying, it never did do to anger your captors, John moved away from the door and against the far wall. From behind him, John could hear a handle turn, and the heavy door swing open. The next thing he knew, John felt the muzzle of a gun against the small of his back, and he was being forcibly taken from the cell, marched down a short corridor, passed another closed metal door, and shoved unceremoniously into a dingy bathroom. He only got a brief look at his captor when the man, tall, blond, late twenties, everything about him screaming military, took him back to his cell.

A minute or so after the door slammed shut, locking John in, a tray with a hunk of bread and some cold meat, slid through the slot at the bottom of the door, along with a bottle of water.

“Who are you? What do you want?” John demanded, trying to get another glimpse of his guard, and thinking back the other door he saw, asked, “Is there anybody else here?” But John’s questions were met with silence.

The bread was hard and stale, the meat was rubbery, but John ate it anyway. His watch read seven forty, and based on how hungry he was, John guessed pm.

Finishing his pathetic meal, John curled up on the old mattress, and began to wonder. He figured he had been missing for close to twenty-four hours, though John couldn’t be sure how long he was unconscious, was anyone looking for him? His thoughts immediately drifted to Sherlock. After everything they said, after everything they did last night, the confessions, the kisses, Sherlock would surely be worried, he’d be looking for him. Sherlock wouldn’t give up, Sherlock would find him. And so, with those thoughts, and the memory of Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, of kissing those soft, perfect lips, John drifted off into a tenuous sleep.

                 

* * *

 

Sherlock lay in bed, listening to his parents move around, until finally the house grew quiet, and he knew it was safe.  Dressing quickly, Sherlock slipped out his bedroom window, and dropped down into his backyard with practiced ease. His parents and the police may have been fine starting the investigation in the morning, but Sherlock wasn’t. When he walked into the police station the next morning, Sherlock planned to have some solid leads, or at the very least, eliminate all doubt that John hadn’t left of his own volition.

 

There was no doubt in his mind that John had been taken against his will, but Sherlock had to make certain, and to do that, he had to check every place John could go, and ever had gone, to escape. Hurrying to the park at the end of his street, Sherlock had to consciously remind himself to breath as he looked at the little patch of grass, surrounded by trees and bushes.  Just twenty-four hours ago, Sherlock lay in that very spot, entangled with John, kissing, holding, feeling him, and now it was empty, no sign of John. The all encompassing joy he felt before, replaced by crushing fear, Sherlock had to keep moving or else he’d collapse under the weight of his worry.

Rushing from the park, Sherlock worked his phone out of his pocket, and dialed the number John gave him ‘just in case.’

After five rings, a groggy, slightly slurred voice answered. “Mmmm…’llo?” Sherlock could practically smell the vodka over the phone.

"Harry? This is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. I’m John’s friend.”

"Yeah, I know who you are Sh’lock. Waddia want?”

"Have you heard from John?” Sherlock asked, forgoing pleasantries.

"No.” Harry grumbled. “Why you asking me, aren’t you, like, always with him?”

"He…ah….he went missing.” Sherlock stumbled, even saying the words hurt. “No one’s seen him since last night. Your father said there was a note, and I was, I mean, we were hoping maybe John had talked to you.”

"Nope. But good for him, finally getting out of that house. Took’um long nough.”

"Yeah, good.” Sherlock said quietly to himself. “Listen, if you hear from him, will you let me know?”

"Suuuure thing Shurrlock.” Harry hummed.

"Right, well… thank you.”

"Yup.” And with that, Harry hung up. Sherlock sighed, he knew she wasn’t going to be of any help, Harry wasn’t going to remember the conversation, let alone to call Sherlock if John showed up, but he had to try.

 

Trying a few more of John’s refuges, including the cemetery where John’s mother was buried, Sherlock was left with one last possible place, the school. There was a long forgotten loft above the gymnasium where he and John would often hideout when they decided to skip class, or just needed an escape during the day. Sherlock couldn’t imagine John hiding away up there all day, and not contacting him, but as with everywhere else he searched, Sherlock had to be sure.

Climbing the ladder up to the loft, Sherlock found it just as they last left it, about two weeks worth of dust accumulated; no one had been there recently. Standing in the dusty loft, reality finally caught up, and crashed over Sherlock. He knew it was foolish to believe he’d find John sitting there, safe and sound, just needed a bit of a breather, but he had hoped, oh how he’d hoped. Sherlock didn’t know how long he stood, staring at the empty space, letting his memories, his fears, and his worries wash over him. It was only the sound of footsteps below and a demand to come down, which roused him from his thoughts.

 

*******

 

“Is this really necessary? I really don’t have time for this. Don’t we all have more important things to be doing?” Sherlock rattled the handcuffs locking him to a desk chair in the police station.

“Yes we do, but you were caught breaking and entering. I think it’s necessary.” The tired officer sighed.

“Well why haven’t I been charged? You caught me red handed after all. What are you waiting for?”

“Me, he’s waiting for me.” Mr. Holmes came to a stop next to Sherlock, straight backed and collected, though Sherlock could read the exhaustion on his face. “I’m so sorry about this Constable… Butler. I am to understand Sherlock was found to have broken into his school?”

“Thank you for coming down, sir.” Butler said, shaking Mr. Holmes’ hand. “And yes, we received a call saying that someone was seen entering the grounds. I found your son in the gymnasium when I went out to investigate. Since he is a minor, and given his history, we thought it best to call you.”

“I appreciate that very much. And did Sherlock explain to you what he was doing at the school?” Mr. Holmes asked, looking down to give Sherlock a small reassuring smile.

“A bit, yes. He told me his friend had run away, and he was checking the possible places he might have gone.”

“That is not what I said, and not what I was doing.” Sherlock protested, looking to his father. “I told him that John had been _taken_ , and I was simply eliminated the possibility that he ran away by clearing anywhere he’d hide out.”

“Mr. Holmes, sir,” Butler ignored Sherlock’s outburst, “I have the report from the officer who spoke to John Watson’s father, George Watson. Everything here says that John ran away. Your son is clearly upset, but I don’t see what else we can tell him.”

“That’s because whoever took John made it look like he ran away! Are you people really so thick you can’t look past the obvious!? And I’m sitting right here, you don’t need to talk about me as if I’m not in the room!” Sherlock cried, punctuating the last statement with another rattle of his cuffs, earning a few looks from the other officers milling about.

“Yes, Sherlock, it’s alright.” Mr. Holmes placed a calming hand on Sherlock’s shoulder before turning back to Constable Butler. “The thing is Constable, my wife and I spoke with Sherlock earlier this evening, we all know John very well, and we don’t believe he simply ran away. We have some concerns.” Sherlock thought he might faint hearing his father backing him up, arguing for him, and for John.

“Well, I’m sure we’d be happy to help in any way we can, sir.” It was no secret who Mr. Holmes was, and though the police may not listen to Sherlock, they’d be less inclined to ignore his father’s concerns.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Mr. Holmes smiled. “Sherlock was informed by Mr. Watson senior, and by the responding officer, a PC Andrews, that a note was found.”

“That’s correct sir. John Watson left a note saying he’d run away.”

“Yes, yes. Well, we had planned on coming to you in the morning, but since we’re here,” Mr. Holmes shot Sherlock another reassuring look, “would you be so kind as to let us have a look at it ourselves?”

“Oh… well, I’m not really involved in the case…” Butler stumbled.

“But there isn’t even an investigation!” Sherlock interjected.

“I give you my personal assurances no harm will come from letting us examine the note.” Added Mr. Holmes.

“That’s true.” Butler said cautiously. He really just take their word as gospel and comply, Sherlock thought to himself. It would take far less time. “Alright, let me just go get it out of evidence.”

“Thank you very much. And would you please do me the favor of uncuffing my son?”

Relocated to the waiting room from earlier in the day, Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed his wrists where the metal had cut into his skin, as he told his father everything his search had turned up, or rather, hadn’t turned up. Thankfully his father just listened and let Sherlock speak, but Sherlock could see him filing all the information away. This was good, with both his parents on his side, Sherlock was sure the inevitable investigation would run smoother, and John would be found sooner.

Sherlock had just finished filling his father in, when PC Butler returned with the note, secured safely in a sealed evidence bag. Leaping up, Sherlock snatched the note out of Butler’s hands and placed it on the table, his father looking over his shoulder. The note was short, just ten words:

 

_I can’t stay here anymore. Don’t look for me – John_

 

“As you can see, the note is highly suggestive that he left on his own. The handwriting matches John’s, does it not?” Butler said as he watched father and son. He wasn’t wrong, the handwriting did look very much like John’s, but it was still wrong.

“It is John’s handwriting, but he didn’t write this.” Sherlock said to his father, then looked up at PC Butler. “This is a forgery.”

“And how do you know this? How did he not write this, but it be his writing?” Butler frowned. He was confused, but he didn’t completely dismiss Sherlock. This was good.

“Because John sprained his wrist last Friday, his left wrist. If John had really written this note, the writing should be sloppier, would show the affect of his injury. It wouldn’t look like his normal writing.” Sherlock explained. “And how are you so sure it’s his writing? Just because his father said so?”

“That, and PC Andrews took a sample from one of the notebooks left on John’s desk.” Butler then produced a second piece of paper, clearly some of John’s biology notes. Apparently PC Andrews was smarter than Sherlock first thought.           

“But with a sample of John’s writing, it’s very possible that a kidnapper could forge the note. It’s kept short to minimize the chance of error.” Mr. Holmes suggested. “They may not have been aware of John’s injury, which explains why it doesn’t look affected.”

“That could be, but isn’t it more likely that John wrote it before? That he’d planned to run away before, and now finally went through with it?”

“No! Absolutely not!” Sherlock had to be actively held back in his chair by Mr. Holmes, shouting at PC Butler. “But in either case,” he continued after regaining his composure, “shouldn’t the note be analyzed by an actual specialist? Pardon me if I don’t trust the expertise of you, or Andrews, or the talented George Watson.”

“Alright Sherlock, there’s no need to be rude.” His father warned him. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, Constable,” Sherlock snorted at this, but Mr. Holmes continued, “but perhaps it would be best for the note to be analyzed by trained handwriting expert, if only to be absolutely sure.”

“You did make some compelling arguments,” PC Butler’s eyes shifted from Mr. Holmes to Sherlock, and back again, “To err on the side of caution, I’ll have the note, along with a sample of John’s handwriting, sent to NSY. The Service is nothing if not thorough.”

“Oh excellent.” Mr. Holmes grinned. “Thank you so much, Constable Butler. We all very much appreciate it.  Now I think it’s about time we get out of your hair. Come along, Sherlock, your mother is worried sick about you.”

 

“Dad,” Sherlock said quietly once they’d gotten into his father’s car, “I can’t believe you… Thank you for…” he stumbled.

“Team effort son. And really, you and Mycroft didn’t get your powers of persuasions out of nowhere. Mum may be the genius, but I’m not half bad sometimes.” His father’s gentle teasing, like a warm blanket, brought a small smile back to Sherlock’s face.

 

*******

 

No sooner was Sherlock through the front door of his house, than he found himself enveloped in his mother’s arms. Once she had finished her lecture, peppered with concern and worry, Sherlock and his father got to explaining everything that happened, from Sherlock’s search, to the note and the police station.

Sherlock sat on the couch, leaning against his mother. “The police still think John ran away. They’re only sending the note for analysis because Dad asked them too.”

“Be that as it may, it’s still going. They’ll see something is off, and then they’ll know the truth.” Mrs. Holmes reassured Sherlock, rubbing comforting circles across his back.

“I want to talk to Lestrade. She knows John, she’ll believe us. She’ll make sure there’s an actual investigation.” Sherlock murmured, the late hour and stress finally taking their toll on him.

“I’ve already cancelled all my classes for tomorrow. First thing in the morning, we’ll go down to the Yard and we’ll speak with her.”

“You don’t have to do that, Mum. I can go alone.”

“You can, but you absolutely will not.” Mrs. Holmes said, her voice stern. “I wouldn’t feel right leaving you alone at a time like this. I’ll cancel the entire week if need be, _you’re_ my top priority.”

Sherlock just hummed, burrowing a bit deeper into his mother’s embrace. He’d sooner cut out his own tongue than admit it, but having his mother with him, holding him, willing to drop everything to support him, did more for him than he could put into words. Then again, expressing gratitude and emotions were never his strong suit.

“Come on, sweetie, now it really is time for you to get to bed. You need your sleep.” Getting up slowly, Sherlock let his mother guide him from the living room. He had no doubt she would have carried him otherwise. “I’m going to stay with him tonight, Richard.” She said quietly as they passed his father.

Mrs. Holmes waited for Sherlock outside the bathroom as he changed back into his pajamas, then tucked him into bed, and settled next to him on top of the duvet, her back against the headboard.

“You don’t have to stay. I’m not going to run off again.” Sherlock mumbled, even as he moved to tuck himself under her arm.

“I know you won’t, but I’m right where I need to be. It’s my job, remember?” She said quietly, patting Sherlock’s head as she did when he was younger.

It felt like when she held him through the night after Redbeard died, only this time Sherlock felt as though his entire heart was missing. He felt tears start to prickle in the corner of his eyes, but he couldn’t allow himself to think John was gone for good. John couldn’t be gone.

“We’ll find him, sweetie.” Mrs. Holmes hummed. “I know what he means to you. Don’t worry, we’ll find him. You’ll get him back. Everything is going to be just fine.” Though there was no way she could know for sure, her soothing words were just what Sherlock needed.

He fought to stay awake, but the feeling of his mother’s hands running through his hair, and her calming reassurances, lulled Sherlock, allowing him to drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a sucker for loving, supportive, comforting Holmes parents.
> 
> The Lestrade they're talking about is Greg's mom. We'll meet her, and Greg next chapter, when Sherlock heads to NSY to get a real investigation started.
> 
> Once again, comments are always welcome, including any mistakes I may have missed!


	4. Properly Handled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock heads to New Scotland Yard, and the case finally gets the attention it deserves.

By eight AM, just about when Sherlock should have been sitting down to Chemistry, he and his mother were walking through the lobby of New Scotland Yard. They would have been there sooner, had his mother not insisted he eat at least two pieces of toast and drink a glass of orange juice.

As they waited for the lift, Sherlock could see someone approach from the corner of his eye. “Hey Sherlock! Check it out, I got my uniform. Whatcha’ think? Oh, hi Mrs. Holmes.” Greg Lestrade greeted them with a grin, completely oblivious to Sherlock’s agitation. He may have been only two weeks on the job, but given his family, and his aspirations to become a detective, he really should have been more observant, Sherlock thought.

“Hello Greg.” Mrs. Holmes said with a tight smile when Sherlock ignored the young officer in favor of watching the lift doors, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Listen, do you know if your mother is in? It’s just… John disappeared the night before last.” She explained in a lowered voice.

“Oh Christ! Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s still here. Does he… Does he think John’s….” Greg asked quietly, but Sherlock could still hear him, his implications like a dagger in his gut.

“No. Oh no no. Sherlock just feels like if anyone can find John, it’s your mother. The local precinct isn’t taking it as seriously as we’d like.”

“Oh good. Well, not good. Sorry.” Greg stumbled. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, yeah?”

“Yes of course. Thank you dear.” Mrs. Holmes nodded. Sherlock didn’t have time for this babble, if Greg really wanted to help, he’d figure out away to make the lift arrive sooner. Barring that, he could just shut up.

Mercifully the lift arrived as Greg walked away, the spring noticeably absent from his step, and took them up nine floors. The doors had barely opened before Sherlock shot out and was winding his way through the desks and cubicles. His mother could catch up, she knew the way.

“Sorry kid, I don’t have any cases for you right now.” DI Katherine Lestrade said, looking up from her file covered desk, when Sherlock burst into her office. “And shouldn’t you be in school right now? Do I need to call the truancy officer?” Her smile faded when she saw the look on Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t care about cases.” Sherlock said, leaning over Lestrade’s desk. “John’s been kidnapped, and I need your help.”

“What?” Lestrade breathed, looking from Sherlock to the recently arrived Mrs. Holmes. “Kidnapped? Okay, Tell me everything that happened.”

“No one’s seen or heard from John since Sunday night. He’s not answering his phone, or responding to any messages.” Sherlock said quickly, fingers almost digging into the desk.

“And have you filed a missing person’s report?”

“Of course the police were contacted.” Sherlock sneered. “But they’re treating him as a runway, and he didn’t run away.”

“Let me just…” The DI trailed away, pulling up the report. For a few anxious minutes the office remained silent as Lestrade read over the report, Sherlock paced, and Mrs. Holmes failed to stop Sherlock’s pacing.              

Finally, Lestrade looked up from her computer and spoke. “Everything in this report makes it sound like John ran away.”

“Of course it does!” Sherlock bit. “I already told you, they’re treating it as if he just left on his own.”

“Sherlock! She’s just trying to help.” Admonished Mrs. Holmes.

“It’s fine Lydia. This doesn’t sit right with me either, Sherlock, but my gut feeling isn’t enough to go on. I’m going to need you to give me something that at least casts doubt on the runaway theory.”

“Oh… Okay, right.” Sherlock had to pause to reorder his thoughts, he really hadn’t expected her to believe him so quickly.

“Here,” Lestrade offered, “take a look. It says that John’s father claims that John’s gone missing for a few days before, that he’s run off before, and always come back. He said that the note is new, so that’s why he thought to call the police.”

“Bullshit! Absolute bullshit!” That earned a frown from Mrs. Holmes, a frown Sherlock conveniently ignored. “John has never run off before. He always made sure to tell Mr. Watson where he was going, if he was going to be gone over night. And he was usually with me.”

“It’s true. Any time John stayed over, or the boys were going off somewhere, I made sure John called his father.” Mrs. Holmes said.

“He’s just trying to make himself not look like the absolute shit father he is.” Sherlock snapped. “He knows he don’t really know John, so he’ll say anything. But we know John, we know he wouldn’t do this.”

“You’re right.” Lestrade said calmly. “But I’m really going to need you to spell it all out, we need to show he’s not the type to do this. So, what’s next?”

Sherlock let out a little huff of exasperation before continuing, “John’s not stupid, and he’d never leave without letting somebody know where he was going, ask anyone. He’d have to turn to someone, and his only family is Harry, and she’s heard nothing from him. There’s no love lost between her and their father, so she wouldn’t go running to him if John showed up. And I’m his… I’m his best friend, he knows he can trust me with anything, I’d never betray him, and I’ve heard nothing. John wouldn’t leave and not tell me. But that’s all beside the point, John’s not the type to run away!”

“Alright, but lots of kids with troubled home lives run away, try to escape. Why wouldn’t John? I know this is tiresome, but we need to do everything right, no shortcuts.”

Sherlock’s patience was wearing dangerously thin, they were wasting precious time going over this. It was only his mother’s gentle hand on his wrist that kept him from exploding at the DI. “He’s a few months from leaving anyway. Once he’s off at University, he’ll be free of his father, free of that house. There is an end in sight, he has no reason to run off now.”

“And we’ve offered to let him stay with us, if he ever needed to. No questions asked, he knows he always has a place in our home.” Mrs. Holmes added.

“Ok, excellent. I think this might be enough to show that it’s not in John’s character to run off, and it shows that he had options. What about concrete evidence? The missing valuables are easy enough to explain, any kidnapper would take them to make it seem like John left, but anything else?”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t paying close enough attention when I went to his house yesterday. But if we go to his house, if we examine his room, I know there’s evidence. I can prove it, I just need to see!”

“It’s alright Sherlock. This should be enough to at least have a look.” Lestrade reassured him. “Now what about this note, it says John left a note saying not to look for him, Mr. Watson confirmed it was John’s handwriting, but it’s been sent here for analysis. What’s wrong with the note?”

Taking a deep breath, and finally sitting down, Sherlock explained everything he and his father had said to PC Butler the night before, going over all the red flags and doubts, Mrs. Holmes adding bits of information Sherlock missed. There was a reason Sherlock came to Lestrade, she was smart, and she wasn’t easily fooled. Not even a half hour after storming into her office, they had a fairly comprehensive argument for opening a full missing persons investigation. For the first time in nearly two days, Sherlock felt a flicker of genuine hope.

Lestrade reached over her desk to take Sherlock’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know it may not seem like it now, but this is a really good start, Sherlock. I’m going to make sure the right people get the case, they’ll handle it properly, and not as another runaway.”

“What? Why aren’t you handling it? You’re the only decent detective in this place. I need you doing it.” Sherlock protested. If there was any hope of finding John, Sherlock needed to have Lestrade working the other end, it was the only way.

“That’s honestly the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say about me.” Lestrade smiled. “I work homicide and robberies. There’s an entire division that specializes in missing persons… Fine, stay here.” She said with a sigh getting up. “Let me just see…” 

Lestrade was gone for a grueling ten minutes, ten minutes of nervous energy where only his mother holding his hand kept him tethered to his seat.

“Ok,” Lestrade said when she finally returned, “I’ve spoken with my superiors, and they’ve agreed to let me work with the missing persons unit to lead the investigation. They feel since I do know John, I might prove useful.”

“Thank you, Katherine.” Mrs. Holmes gripped Lestrade’s hand, her eyes a bit misty. “You have no idea what this means to us, to have you on our side.”

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock mumbled, already busy formulating his, their, next moves.

“Not another word, I care about John too. Now come on, they’re setting up the investigation on seven.”

 

By the time Lestrade, Sherlock, and Mrs. Holmes reached the seventh floor, the missing persons unit had already started constructing a rudimentary timeline with everything Sherlock and the initial report had provided. Introductions were made, a Detective Inspector Whately, head the missing persons unit, was Lestrade’s co-lead, along with three Sergeants, Hopkins, Evans, and Milner. To Sherlock surprise, but no one else’s, Greg had also volunteered to assist, all two weeks worth of experience. If Sherlock hadn’t been so singularly focused on finding John, he would have realized that a full scale investigation, headed by two of the Yards best DIs, and involving three detective sergeants, was a bit more than a usual missing persons case would get. Normally, such a case would be headed by one of the sergeants. Clearly someone pulled strings, someone with influence, someone with security clearance. As it was, all Sherlock cared about was what needed to be done.

“Has the handwriting analysis come in yet?” Sherlock asked, scanning the board and seeing no mention of John’s supposed goodbye note.

“Not yet, we just received the sample, and there is a bit of backlog at the moment. We should get it back by the end of the day.” One of the sergeants, Evans, said, flipping through some papers.

“The end of the day?!” Sherlock could feel the pressure in his head rising, disproving that note was critical, not to mention everything it could tell them about who really wrote it. “That’s not nearly soon enough. Have you people even worked any sort of case before?”

“Sherlock, if you don’t remain civil, I’ll have to ask you to leave. Arguments are not going to help John.” Lestrade tone left no room for argument. “We have procedures, we can’t just jump the queue at will. There are plenty of other avenues we can be focusing on.  Now, Milner, how’s it coming with John’s phone?”

“We’ve spoken to his provider, and the GPS hasn’t been activated. They say they need the account holder, a Mr. George Watson, to authorize them to turn it on, or if we get a warrant.”

“So why haven’t you gotten the authorization yet?” Sherlock asked, beginning to pace again.

Milner sighed, a man in his early thirties clearly annoyed having to answer to a kid almost half his age. “We’ve called Mr. Watson’s work, but they say he’s out on a call. They don’t know when he’ll be back, but they say they’ll give him the message.”

“Alright, then get started on a warrant. I don’t want to waste time waiting around.” Whately said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw his mother slip out of the room, her phone in hand. Not five minutes later, the GPS was switched on, and Sherlock held his breath as tracker loaded.

“Leicester Square!” Milner said when the map finally appeared. “And the signal seems to be holding steady.”

“Lestrade, you should go.” Whately said. “Hopkins, Evans, go with her. Milner, you and I’ll stay here at command, and watch, make sure the phone doesn’t move.”

Sherlock immediately started following after Lestrade. “I’m coming too.”

“That’s fine, you can ride with me. Evans and Hopkins, you take another car and we’ll meet there.” Lestrade said, ushering Sherlock along, before turning back. “Lydia, listen…”

“No, just go, I’m fine here. Just keep an eye on my boy.”

“Will do. Come on, Sherlock. Let’s go.”

 

The morning rush had died down somewhat, but they were still heading into the center of London, and traffic was heavy. Even with the sirens, the 1.2 mile journey took an agonizing eleven minutes. Lestrade had only just parked, and hadn’t even had a chance to shut off the engine, when Sherlock jumped from the car, and sprinted into the square. Quickly joined by Lestrade, and Hopkins and Evans who arrived just behind them, Sherlock whipped his had around, searching for any sign of John. There were a fair few people in the square. People sitting around the fountain, people sprawled on the grass, and people just passing through. There were people taking coffee breaks, people eating an early lunch, people talking on the phone, and people enjoying a moment to shut their eyes. Sherlock rushed from one end of the square to the other, looking at all the people, and none of them where John.

“Hopkins.” Lestrade called to the young sergeant, probably in her late twenties, if that. “Radio in and tell them John’s not here. See if they’ve got anything more, if the signal’s moved, if something’s changed.”

“Yes ma’am.” Hopkins said, already on her phone. “No change, the GPS signal is still reading here. Milner was able to narrow it down a bit, he says it slightly south east of center.”

“Shut up, everybody shut up. Just stay quiet!” Sherlock yelled, not giving a damn about the glares he earned from police and bystander alike. There was too much noise, he needed to think. “It might be on!” He announced, hitting the five on his speed dial. “I’m calling his phone. Listen!”

Straining his ears, Sherlock heard it, the song from that ridiculous show about the Hawaiian detective, the ring John picked out just for him. It was faint but he heard it, and by scanning looks of the Met, they heard it too. Finally after Sherlock had to hang up and dial again, Sergeant Evans pinpointed where the ringing was coming from, a trash bin on the boarder of the square’s center. Sherlock tore through the nearly full bin, the ringing getting louder with each handful of trash he threw on the ground, until there, sitting in a takeaway container from some sandwich shop, sat John’s phone.

“Don’t touch it, kid.” Commanded Evans, putting on gloves and placing the phone and box into evidence bags. “We might be able to get something useful.” He added with a smile that Sherlock assumed was meant to be comforting. It wasn’t. Seeing the phone, something John was so rarely without, now sealed in an evidence bag, made it all seem real. It was wrong.

“It had to be re-charged.” Sherlock spoke almost as if on autopilot. “Whoever took him had to have charged it. John always charges it overnight, there wouldn’t have been enough power left when he was taken.”

Hopkins volunteered to stay behind and canvas the square, seeing if anyone saw John or whoever disposed of the phone. Promising to send some uniforms to assist, Lestrade left with Sherlock and Evans, back to Scotland Yard.

Once they got in the car, Sherlock deflated again. “I really thought we’d find him.” He said quietly, struggling to keep his voice level.

Lestrade reached over, patting Sherlock’s knee gently, her eyes still looking straight forward. “Well we got something, and it  _will_ tell us more.”

 

When they reached Scotland Yard, Lestrade and Sherlock headed back up to the seventh floor, while Evans dropped off the evidence. Walking into the incident room, or ‘the command center’ as Whately called it, Sherlock found his mother speaking with Greg, Greg jotting down notes, and Whately hunched over a desk, speaking to a curly haired woman Sherlock had never seen before.

“The phone and carton are being analyzed for prints and any trace.” Lestrade said striding up to Whately and the woman. “What’s going on here?” She asked.

“Lestrade, this is Samantha Brown. She’s our handwriting expert. Ms. Brown, Detective Inspector Katherine Lestrade.”

“It’s great to put a face to the…” Lestrade started before Sherlock interrupted.

“You’ve analyzed the note? What does it tell us?!” Sherlock demanded. At this point, Mrs. Holmes and Greg had come over to listen as well.

Ms. Brown furrowed her brow, but ignored Sherlock, focusing on Lestrade instead. “As I was just telling DI Whately, after comparing the note to the sample provided, the handwriting is almost definitely a match to John Watson’s.  _But_ ,” she continued when Sherlock let out a low pitched whine, “there are some red flags.”

“What are they?” “And they are?” Sherlock and Lestrade asked simultaneously.

“It’s a bit too perfect of a match.” Ms. Brown explained. “If you notice, the same letters are formed exactly the same. See, all the A’s are identical, the E’s are identical, the T’s, the H’s. There is virtually no way someone is that consistent when writing, especially since he wasn’t that consistent in the sample you provided. And another thing, the smudging.”

Lestrade looked confused. “What do you mean? There’s no smudging on the note?”

“On the note, no.” Ms. Brown explained. “But on the sample…”

“He’s left handed!” Sherlock exclaimed, berating himself for having missed it, for being so careless, when he needed to be at his best. “John’s left handed. His hand always drags over whatever he’s written. His writing is always smudged, without fail.” God, how many times had Sherlock teased him that his pinky finger was going to be permanently ink stained? 

“So are you saying this was printed out, typed or something?” Lestrade asked, the confusion still written across her face.

“No, it was definitely hand written, I just don’t know how.”

“They made a mistake. The kidnappers messed up.” Sherlock started mumbling to himself, walking back and forth in front of the desk. “They were smart enough to copy John’s writing, maybe scanning it somehow, but dumb enough not to account for normal variation.”

“And what does that tell us?” Greg piped up from where he was standing behind Sergeant Milner.

“I don’t… I don’t know yet.” Sherlock said, gritting his teeth, mentally berating himself for his lack of answers.

“When she gets back from canvassing, we should have Hopkins research possible ways a note like this could be made.” Whately said, now speaking with Lestrade. “And I assume the original note is being processed for any trace?”

“You assume? You mean you can’t keep track of your own evidence?!” Sherlock snarled, his volume increasing. This man was an imbecile, left in his hands, they’d never find John. Why was Lestrade even listening to him? Why didn’t she just take over, take charge? 

“Of course we know where the original is.” Lestrade sighed. “This isn’t all new for you, Sherlock. You know how these things take time. We’re working as fast as we can.”

‘As fast as they can’ was not good enough, it wasn’t even approaching good enough. John was out there somewhere, in danger, counting on them, counting on him, and Yard was dragging their bloody feet. Sherlock was just about to go down and run the damn tests himself, when Evans reappeared, folder in hand.

Evans headed straight for Lestrade and Whately, addressing them directly. “Ma’am, Sir. Sorry I wasn’t back sooner, I figured if I stood and waited there, they’d move faster.”

“Smart.” Lestrade nodded. “Did we get anything usable?”

“There was only one set of prints found on the phone, and they’re John’s. I’m not sure why his prints are in our system.” Evans added. Sherlock knew, when he and John started showing up more and more at crime scenes, Lestrade insisted they be finger printed as a precaution. Sherlock figured it was because she was afraid they’d contaminate her crime scenes, but he was somewhat thankful for it now.

“Alright, I was kind of expecting that.” Whately grumbled. “What else?”

“All the preliminary tests seem to show any substances found on the phone is probably from being found in the trash. But there are some more tests they can run. Tech has the phone now, looking for anything suspicious in his call or message history.” They won’t find anything, Sherlock thought. John wasn’t involved in anything shady or underhanded. John didn’t bring this on himself.

“What about the takeaway carton the phone was found in?” Asked Lestrade.

“Pretty run of the mill box from a place called ‘Speedy’s’, a sandwich shop over on Baker Street. There was some residue on the inside that matched that which was found on the phone, egg salad most likely. Single set of prints, not John’s this time, but they’re not in the system.”

“Well of course not! And they aren’t going to be our kidnapper’s.” Sherlock tugged at his hair, beginning to sound frantic. “Whoever took him won’t leave their prints. They made him just disappear, they wouldn’t be so sloppy.”

Sherlock didn’t notice his mother coming up behind him until her hands were gently pulling his arms down, her quiet voice was telling him to breath, and she guided him down into a chair.

“Your mother’s right, Sherlock.” Lestrade said, coming to sit across from Sherlock. “I can’t be worried about you having a panic attack on top of everything. It might be best if you take a bit of a breather, get some distance, there’s not much you can really do right now. This isn’t like normal cases you help out with, you’re too close to this. Just leave it us for the moment, I promise to keep you updated with any news.”

Sherlock was about to protest yet again, but the feel of his mother’s hand, warm against his shoulder, triggered him to let out a deep shuddered breath. “Alright, but pl – please let me know when you’re going to search John’s room. You know I know him best, Mr. Watson wouldn’t be able to tell if anything is off.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be one of the first ones in.” And Sherlock believed her, he knew he was right in insisting she be involved. “Oh, and I’ll be sure to get you copies of all the reports.” Lestrade added in a whisper, and with a wink.

Standing up slowly, Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes left Lestrade’s team to their work. Lestrade was smart, and a damn good detective, not that Sherlock would ever tell her so, and he trusted she knew what she was doing, but she had another thing coming if she honestly thought Sherlock would take ‘a breather’. No, Sherlock had work to do, and mercy be to anyone who tried to stand in his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have let my love of 'Endeavour' 'Lewis' and 'Foyle's War' slip in this chapter, along with a couple of canon ACD characters (at least canon names). And yes, John set Sherlock's custom ring tone to the Magnum P.I. theme song. Also, I'd be remissed if I didn't work in John being left handed, and the plight we face everyday when writing something down (it's a struggle, but we carry on).
> 
> Next up, Sherlock can't be expected to sit still, so he starts investigating on his own (or with his mom technically). And he finally get's the chance to re-examine John's room.
> 
> Comments, corrections, and criticisms are always welcome!


	5. Stay Moving, Keep Active

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temporarily kicked out of the Yard, Sherlock starts to investigate other avenues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sherlock seems a bit OOC in this fic, but I figure he's only 17, and he's had John's humanizing presence for his formative years. Plus even in canon his emotions go haywire when John's involved.

“Now I know what you’re going to say, but maybe it’s a good idea to just let the police work for the time being.” Mrs. Holmes said as she and Sherlock exited New Scotland Yard into the uncharacteristically bright London afternoon.

“I can’t just do nothing!”  Sherlock knew he sounded pathetic, the desperation he felt, no doubt evident on his face. “I need to keep working… John, he’s… he’s counting on me.”

“I’m not saying you sit out and stop investigating all together. Just take a bit of a break, like Katherine suggested. It’s nearly one o’clock, and you’ve barely had anything to eat since yesterday; why don’t we get you some lunch. Once you’re done, I’m sure the police will have some more to work with, and we get started again.” The very thought of food turned Sherlock’s stomach. Even if he wanted to eat something, he very much doubted he’d be able to keep it down.

“I can’t.” He knew she meant well, but Sherlock had to make his mother see ‘a bit of a break’ was impossible. “I can’t just stop. I can work in tandem with Lestrade, I can start investigating different avenues. We can get twice the amount of information, in half the time!”

“Sherlock…” Mrs. Holmes said warily.

He could feel another part of him breaking. “Mummy… please.” Sherlock said, his voice almost inaudible. After finding John’s phone, for it only to give them nothing, Sherlock needed to stay moving, had to keep active.

“Okay.” His mother looked as if her heart was breaking for him. In truth, he thought it was, just one more ache to add to his ever heavying heart. “But we are going to pick up something for you to eat, no arguments.”

“Thank you.”

“I feel like I’m failing you as a mother.” Mrs. Holmes mumbled under her breath. “So, where are we going?”

“John’s room. I didn’t actually look close enough last time.” Sherlock was not going to forgive himself for that error anytime soon. Mr. Watson was being so combative, and he was so desperate for answers, that he was already out the door before he really had time to think. “There has to be something there that will lead me to him, there has to be.”

“No.” Mrs. Holmes said. “John’s room has to wait for the police and Mr. Watson.”

“You can’t be seri…” Sherlock starts to object, but Mrs. Holmes remains firm.

“I know it’s difficult, but finding John is too important.”

“Exactly, so…”

“So everything has to be official. I don’t want even the suggestion of you contaminating evidence, or Mr. Watson pressing breaking and entering charges.” Mrs. Holmes explained, holding Sherlock by the shoulders. “No, John’s room has to be processed officially. Mr. Watson should return home from work in a couple of hours, and police will get access then. Katherine has already said you’re going in first. Now, where else?”

“Then I want to see Dad. He said he’d get me access to CCTV footage. We can start with Leicester Square, we might be able to find who threw away John’s phone. That might lead us somewhere.”

“Good, that’s good.” Mrs. Holmes nodded, already heading towards their car. Sherlock suspected she was pleased he wanted to go to a secure government building where there were more eyes to watch him, and she’s have his father for back up. “Do you want to let the team know?”

“No. They’ll just try to interfere and send someone with me to ‘help’.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“They’re still not treating this like a priority, so they’d just slow me down. Any footage they review, I’d have to go over again. No,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, “I’ll let them know what I find when I find it.” He knew this wasn’t quite true. Lestrade was taking John’s disappearance seriously, and was almost as motivated to find him as Sherlock was. But he was frustrated, the lack of any solid leads weighing on him, he felt like he needed to be doing more.

 

*******

               

“Just take a seat. I’ve already let Mr. Holmes know you’re here, and he’ll be out of his meeting in about five minutes.” Mr. Holmes’ personal assistant led Sherlock and his mother through the back corridors of a nondescript building, on a nondescript street, to his father’s office.

Fortunately Mrs. Holmes hadn’t bothered to try any further to persuade Sherlock to let the Yard handle the CCTV footage. Unfortunately, she had meant it about wanting Sherlock to eat something, and dropped a cellophane wrapped tuna sandwich and a bottle of water next to him as they waited for Mr. Holmes to join them. While he did drink the water, Sherlock barely glanced at the sandwich. Honestly, tuna salad was a risk even without an already upset stomach.

Sherlock didn’t have to deal with the sandwich for long, because exactly five minutes and thirty-eight seconds after being lead into the office, Mr. Holmes strode in, greeting his wife with a kiss, and a tight hug for Sherlock. Mrs. Holmes had apparently already sent word ahead, a fact for which Sherlock was eternally grateful, because he was soon equipped with secured laptops and access to both CCTV live feeds and recordings. Sherlock didn’t even want to think about what strings his father had to pull, all the favors he had to call in, to get Sherlock access. He’d have to figure out some way to thank both his parents for everything they were doing for him, but could think about that later, for the moment, a nod and brief tight lipped smile would have to do.

The footage from around West Barlow Road had already been reviewed; His father assured Sherlock he sat next to the tech and watched the footage himself. According to Mr. Holmes, John was seen getting home a little after 11 pm, and no one was seen coming or leaving until Mr. Watson left for work the next morning at 7:30 am. All foot and vehicle traffic in the immediate area, were cleared as well. No suspicious stops or delays. But of course the captors weren’t seen, who did they think they were dealing with? John could never have been taken by amateurs.

With the West Barlow Road footage being analyzed for any evidence of tampering, which there had to be, and with the assurance of complete privacy in Mr. Holmes’ office, Sherlock got to work reviewing the recordings of Leicester Square. He had a thirty-five hour window – the time between when he watched John walk away, and when John’s phone was discovered – in which he had to look, to find something to point to John’s location, or his captors. With his mother watching various angles of the square, Sherlock focused on the single camera pointed directly at the bin where they found John’s phone.

Five minutes, ten minutes, a half hour, the time ticked by, and they watched for any sign, any clue. Tea was delivered, ignored, drank, thrown away, and refilled. A bag of crisps was left open next to Sherlock’s hand, and absentmindedly he ate, eyes never leaving the screen.

 

Roughly an hour in, Sherlock’s mobile vibrated indicating a text. Glancing down and seeing the kitten icon, Sherlock huffed, ignoring it as it vibrated again. Finally, on the third alert, Mrs. Holmes snatched the phone,  punched in Sherlock’s code, and slipped out of the room. He really ought to change his pass code if his mother could crack it so easily.

“That was Molly Hooper.” Mrs. Holmes said, when she re-entered a few minutes later.

“Obviously.” Muttered Sherlock, not looking up.

“She really is a very good friend, Sherlock. You really ought to treat her better.”

“I know she’s a good friend, and I treat her fine. What did she want?” Sherlock asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“She wanted to warn you that the whole school knows what happened. Apparently John’s father called the school and told them that John had run away, and the teachers then informed all the students in homeroom.” Sherlock was about to interject, when Mrs. Holmes held up her hand and continued. “Don’t worry, I filled her in and told her that we don’t think he ran away, and that the police are treating it as an abduction. She said she figured as much, that John would never up and leave. She’s already let people know that he couldn’t have run away, most everyone who knows him agrees.” 

“Oh… yes, good.” Honestly, Sherlock was expecting comforting platitudes, ‘Oh, he’ll come back soon enough’, offers of a shoulder to ‘cry’ on. Molly really was smarter, and more logical than he gave her credit for.

“Yeah, she also wanted to let you know that she’s recorded all your lectures, and I quote ‘though I don’t think he really cares right now.’” Too right he didn’t care, as if there was anything his teachers could possible ‘teach’ that he didn’t already know. Anything not related to this investigation, he’d delete anyway.

“I told her you’d let her know if you needed anything. Said she’s ready to help in any way she can.” Sherlock just nodded. Dependable Molly, just one more person for whom to be grateful.

 

They soon lapse into silence, once more focusing on the CCTV footage. Another hour passed, when finally Sherlock spotted something, nearly yelling as he leapt from his chair.

“There! Right there!”

“What is it? Who’s she?” Mrs. Holmes asked, looking at the paused image of a young woman on Sherlock’s screen, time stamped the day before at 12:07 pm.

“That’s the carton we found John’s phone in, and she just threw it in the bin!” Sherlock was moving like a whirlwind, zooming in on the woman’s face, he had to identify her, he needed to speak with her immediately.

“How do you know that’s the right carton?”

“The five!” Sherlock sighed, he didn’t have time to explain everything. “On the one we found, there was a large orange number five written on the side. And look, a large number five on that carton. It’s the same one.”

Minutes later, they had tracked the woman entering in Square empty handed, pass behind a kiosk, emerge moments later holding the carton, and move immediately to throw it away. They also had a name. Sherlock should have probably wondered how his mother knew how to access government facial recognition programs. Then again, she did write part of the algorithm the program used. But that didn’t matter at the moment, they had a name: Imogen Riley, 24, accounting intern at a firm not too far from the Square.

 

*******

 

With a quick goodbye to Mr. Holmes, Sherlock and his mother set out for Imogen’s office. Mrs. Holmes had called on the way, so DI Lestrade and Sergeant Evans were waiting for them when they arrived.

 

“I’m really sorry, but I don’t know what to tell you.” Imogen said as she sat across from Lestrade and Sherlock. She was calm, she was cooperative, but she gave them nothing. She was utterly useless. Apparently she was just cutting through the square on her way back from lunch, when she saw a small pile of trash on the ground.

“I really hate it when people leave their trash about, you know?” She sounded so sincere, so concerned as she looked at Lestrade, Sherlock felt ill. “Honestly, I didn’t know there was anything in it. There was no one around it, so I just picked it up and threw it away. It was just some trash.”

“No one, you didn’t see who dropped it?” Sherlock asked, leaning across the table. “Think! Was anyone watching you, did anyone seem interested in you or the trash? Was there anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, no. I swear! There were other people around, yeah, but no one was paying attention. You see that kind of stuff every day. Trash left on the ground, I mean.” Imogen’s voice seemed to raise an octave, her breathing quickened. Just what Sherlock needed to deal with, she didn’t know anything, and now she was on the brink of a panic attack.

“It’s quite alright, Miss Riley.” Lestrade said in an attempt to calm Imogen down.

“I really am sorry I couldn’t be of anymore help.”

Sherlock just huffed, and stormed from the room, followed quickly by Mrs. Holmes.

 

“We need to look at the footage again. Whoever dropped the phone has to be on there.” Sherlock could feel his own panic attack starting. He had to remain calm; he had to remain level headed. If he lost it now, his mother and Lestrade would make him stop, and he couldn’t stop.

“Honey, we checked from all angles, it was a complete blind spot.” Mrs. Holmes said, in an attempt to sooth Sherlock, but it was not working.

“Of course it was.” Sherlock groaned, why couldn’t see just see it like he could. “But they have to show up at some point. They didn’t just appear and disappear on the spot. They were hiding it somehow, I’d have seen the container, so maybe under a jacket or in a bag. We look for anyone who passed through the blind spot.”

“Hundreds of people pass through every day, it’d be virtually impossible to ID and interview everyone.” Mrs. Holmes said

“But we only have to look at a thirteen hour time frame, probably less. I just need to look for anyone who lingered behind the kiosk. I can find him… find them”

“I can put Milner on it, and we might be able to compile a list. I can’t make any promises that it will pan out, though.” Lestrade said striding up to Sherlock and his mother, having apparently caught the gist of what they were talking about..

“I’ll do it, I know what to look for.” Sherlock said. He seemed to be doing everything already, he honestly did know if he could even trust the Sergeant with something as important as this.

“And so does Milner. Anyway, it’s nearly four, and Mr. Watson should be home by now. I was planning on heading over there now to get a look at John’s room. Figured you’d want in.” Lestrade added with a small smile. She was clearly trying to lift Sherlock’s spirits, though how she thought the idea of searching John’s room for clues to his disappearance, would lift his spirits, Sherlock would never know. He loved investigating a crime scene, but never when John was the victim.

 

Sherlock rode with Lestrade and Evans, not wanting to waste a moment, and Mrs. Holmes agreed to meet them at the Watson house. As he slid into the back seat of Lestrade’s car, Sherlock found a folder laying next to him. After catching her eye in the rear-view mirror, Sherlock began reading as they drove off.  It was a copy of tech’s findings after examining the phone. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated to find they found nothing. No suspicious calls or messages from unknown numbers, no strange pictures or web searches, nothing. There were nine unread text massages, the five he send throughout the day the day before at school, the one he asked Molly to send, and three Sherlock doesn’t fully remember sending late the night before, begging John to be okay, telling him he missed him, begging him to come home safe. There were also the three missed calls made when trying to locate the phone in the square. So much of John’s activity centered around Sherlock, his last outgoing call was to Sherlock late Sunday morning, calling to tell him to check his texts and that he was outside. The last text was to Sherlock, right after they both left for home:

 

_Night :) – JW_

 

Sherlock didn’t manage to even read the last sheet of the report, his eyes too blurred to focus properly. That call, and that text were not going to be John’s last to Sherlock, he would not let an infernal emoticon be the last thing John told him.

 

*******

 

By the time they reached John’s house and were walking up to the path, Sherlock not bothering to wait for Lestrade and Evans catch up before pounding on the door, Sherlock had collected himself, wiped away any sign of tears, and was refocused.

Lestrade had just stepped up beside Sherlock, as Mr. Watson opened the door. “Good afternoon Mr. Watson. I’m Detective Inspector Katherine Lestrade, and this is Detective Sergeant Patrick Evans.” Lestrade said, nodding towards Evans.

“Yeah, alright. This about my son? Did you find him on the streets? Did he get arrested?”

“John’s not on the streets! He hasn’t been arrested! He’s been kidnapped, and you damn well know it!” Sherlock shouted, he’d have lunged at Mr. Watson if Evans hadn’t grabbed his shirt.

“Alright, Sherlock, that’s enough, I you need to stay calm.” Lestrade murmured. “Sorry about that.” She turned, addressing Mr. Watson. “I’m heading the investigation into your son’s disappearance. I’ve actually gotten to know John a little bit over the years, and I want to assure you that finding John is my number one priority.”

“Heading the investigation? He left.” Mr. Watson honestly believed John left. Eighteen years with him, and he didn’t know John at all. Sherlock wished he could say he was surprised, but really, he was just disgusted.

“Well a missing persons report was filed, so we have to investigate.”

“Ok.” A hint of apprehension finally entered Mr. Watson’s voice, and motioned for them to come in the house.

“Thank you. I should let you know that we’ve come across some new evidence that leads us to believe John was abducted. We need to see John’s room, it might give us some leads as to who took him, and maybe where.”

“Oh yeah. Yeah, of course. It’s up the stairs and on the right. I haven’t been in there since yesterday.” Finally, the first decent, right thing he’s done, Sherlock thought, and made to follow Lestrade and Evans up the stairs.

“No, not him.” Mr. Watson said, putting up his arm to block Sherlock. “If John really has been taken, I don’t want him involved. He fashions himself some super sleuth, and he probably got my kid taken.”

And there it was, that nagging fear that played on repeat in the back Sherlock’s head, voiced for all the world to hear by a man he struggled to tolerate. It was like a punch to the gut, it was his fault.

“Mr. Watson, please.” Lestrade said quietly. “We probably wouldn’t even be investigating if it weren’t for Sherlock. He found all the inconsistencies, he brought them to us.”

“Feeling guilty.” Mr. Watson huffed.

“No.” Lestrade said, ever the stern DI. “He cares, and he knows John better than anyone. Don’t argue. He can help. Come on, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock didn’t know what he expected as he walked in to John’s room. A hand print? Boot prints? Map coordinates? No, it was exactly the same as the day before, pristine as always. But there had to be something, there was always something.

Lestrade had apparently called in a forensics team when Mr. Watson gave his permission for them to search John’s room, so Sherlock could only look. Evans slipped him a pair of gloves anyway. As he moved through the room, things immediately started popping out at him. The clothes John was wearing that night were in his hamper. What would be the point of changing clothes if he were planning to run away? And while some of John’s clothes were missing, as Sherlock noticed the day before, all John’s shoes were still there. Whoever took him was careful about everything, they wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. The shoes meant something; the kidnappers were sending some sort of message.

“How do you know all his shoes are here?” Evans asked as a forensics tech started processing the shoes.

“Because he only has four pairs, and they’re all right here. And those were the shoes he was wearing on Sunday.” Sherlock said, pointing to a pair of sneakers. He seriously started to wonder about the Met’s hiring practices, if they made an idiot like Evans, a detective.

“And you know all his shoes?” Evans raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s got another pair.”

“John’s careful with his money, and he wouldn’t waste it when all his shoes are in fairly good condition. Things really would go smoother if you all just trust me, and trust I know what I’m saying.” Sherlock did not have the patience to deal with the constant questioning, and second guessing. There was a reason he wanted to work with Lestrade, but she was too busy speaking with Mr. Watson.

 

An hour later, the forensics team had processed every inch of John’s room, and were packed up and gone. They had taken prints from the window, all doors, John’s desk, his dresser, and even his school books. All of John’s shoes were bagged up, on Sherlock’s insistence, but not before Sherlock took scrapings from the bottoms. A mud sample was taken from small patch near John’s wardrobe.

Lestrade and Evans were on their way back to New Scotland Yard, Sherlock’s mother was offering what comfort and support she could to a now worried Mr. Watson, and Sherlock stood alone in John’s room. _John_ seemed to be ingrained in every surface, the whole place was saturated with _John_. It took every ounce of will power, not to crawl into John’s neatly made bed, and bury himself in the sheets. Instead, Sherlock got to his knees, and pried up the loose floorboard under John’s bed, under which John kept a box of his most treasured possessions. Inside was £250 of  ‘Don’t Touch: Emergency Only’ money, and the charm bracelet John’s mother wore every day. John would never leave without that bracelet, and the fact that it still sat in the box under the floorboards, closed the door on any lingering possibility that John had left on his own.

Sherlock held the bracelet in his hand for a moment, his fingers brushing over each of the charms, remembering the day after Mrs. Watson’s funeral when he sat beside John listening as John told him the story behind each and every one. It wasn’t until he was putting the bracelet away, that Sherlock spotted a piece of paper at the bottom of the box. It was a two year old news clipping from the first time he and John made it into the paper.  He stared down at the picture of himself at fifteen, a sixteen year old John, split lip and beaming at the camera, with an arm around Sherlock’s neck. Barely managing to swallow the sudden lump in his throat, Sherlock let his fingers pause over John’s smiling face, before he returned the clipping to its hiding place, and left the room. He had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up WE learn a bit more about John's captors (Sherlock doesn't, though), and Sherlock starts investigating on his own.
> 
> Once again, comments, corrections, and critiques are always welcome!


	6. Combing the Streets of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Yard conducting their investigation, Sherlock gets his own underway. 
> 
> Elsewhere, John finds out exactly why he was taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I should trigger warning this, but to be safe, there is a bit of violence in this chapter (not graphic, just mentioned)

Two days, John sat alone in his concrete prison cell for two days, or at least he estimated it was two days. There was no difference between ‘night’ and ‘day’, the light bulb burned around the clock, but John still had his watch, and the semi-regular schedule of his jailer. Twice a day, food got pushed through the flap in the door, usually something dry or cold. Twice a day, the gun toting guard escorted John to the bathroom. Every time the door flap opened, every time he was marched down the short hallway, a gun barrel to his back, John asked, begged to know what was going on, and every time he got nothing. Two days of isolation, of nothing but unanswered questions, and ever growing fear.

On the third day, something finally changed; his jailer came to collect him early. Like before, John was taken from his cell at gun point, but this time he was forced through the previously closed door. The room, much like his cell, was small and cold, and right in the middle sat a single chair, bolted to the floor. And hanging from the chair was what looked to be restraints

“What’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?” John cried as he was forced to sit down, the straps wrapping around his forehead, arms, and legs, securing him to the chair.

“Why do you think, Johnny boy?” Came a soft, sing-song voice. There was somebody standing in the corner, thought the lights made it impossible for John to see him. But there was something about that voice, like he’d heard it before, and he just couldn’t place where.

“I don’t know!” John struggled against his restraints, trying to turn his head, straining to see as the Voice circled around behind him.

“Oh come on, THINK!” The Voice shouted, practically into John’s ear. “I know you’re not the brains of the operation, but there must be  _something_ going on up there.” John jumped as a finger lightly tapped his temple.

“Brains of the operation?” What was he talking about, what operation? John thought. “Wait,” he said with a gasp, realization dawning on him. “Do you mean Sherlock? Is this about Sherlock? Is this about a case?

“Oh  _very good!_ I think someone’s finally starting to get it!”

John struggled harder, the restraints cutting into his arms and legs, desperate to get out of the chair. “Is Sherlock here?!? Do you have Sherlock?! SHERLOCK!!!!” He called; panicked that Sherlock had been captured too, and he had no idea.

“Oh be quiet!” The Voice moved into John’s line of sight. Though his face still remained in the shadows, John saw him lift a hand, and suddenly John felt a burst of pain as the butt of the Jailer’s riffle rammed into his gut. “Of course I don’t have Sherlock,  _MORON!_ I don’t need to take Sherlock, he’s going to come to me willingly. This is about you.” He taunted.

“Why? Why me?” John sputtered for breath, even as relief flooded over him, knowing Sherlock was safe for the moment. John knew Sherlock would never side with a psychopath, but a sense of dread soon followed. What would this maniac do when Sherlock didn’t join him?

“Oh ultimately you don’t matter, you’re nothing. But right now, you’re Sherlock’s favorite play thing.” John flinched at the cold, manic laugh. “But know this,  _pet_ , with you out of the way, Sherlock is going to have a new partner to play with.” The Voice whispered in his ear. “Get a good             night’s sleep, Johnny boy. The real fun’s going to start tomorrow.” He added, his tone taking on the light sing-song quality once again, as he walks out the door.

Once the Voice had left, The Jailer freed John’s now raw arms and legs, forcing him out of the chair, and practically threw him back in his cell. As the door slammed shut, the light in the ceiling went out, plunging the cell into complete darkness. Curled up on his mattress, nursing his injuries, John started to hope – for the first time – that Sherlock wasn’t looking for him. He hoped Sherlock stayed far away and safe, leaving everything to the police. But that’s not the Sherlock he knew, not the Sherlock he…. So he could only hope that Sherlock was careful. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t return to school for the rest of the week. Convinced he’d find him within a few days, Sherlock focused completely on the search for John. Taking over one of the guest rooms, he covered every surface, creating his own incident room. A timeline stretched across one wall, starting from the moment John left Sherlock’s sight, to the present. Photographs of John’s room and every piece of evidence, copies of lab analyses and police reports, were pinned to the walls, or spread out over the bed, or on the floor. On the desk sat one of his father’s laptops with a secured connection to both live and recorded CCTV footage. The countless of favors Mr. Holmes must have called in;  _‘Hush now, it’s for family’_ his father had said, but still Sherlock would never be able to make it up to him. Nights found Sherlock holed up in this room, reviewing and analyzing every last bit of data; and days, Sherlock’s days were spent walking the streets of London, searching.

 

The search began with Speedy’s, the sandwich shop on Baker Street. It was a small family owned shop, selling sandwiches, pastries, and various coffees and teas. It seemed to get a fair amount of business, from both commercial and residential traffic.

“No, I don’t think I’ve seen them in here before.” The kid at the counter said, looking at photos of John and Imogen Riley. “But let me get the owner, she works the register too. She might recognize them.”

Sherlock fidgeted at the counter as he waited for the kid to return with his boss. He didn’t expect them to recognize the photos, Imogen only found the carton after all, and the kidnappers wouldn’t let John just wander in freely. Really, Sherlock just needed any information about that carton, or more specifically, who bought it.

Sherlock didn’t have to wait long, as an older woman walked out from the kitchen.

“Fiona Simmons.” She said in lieu of a greeting. Direct, Sherlock appreciated it. “Andy was telling me you were asking after some customers.”

“Yes, I’m working with the police, and I was wondering if you had seen either of these two.” Sherlock said, producing the photos once again.

“You’re with the police? Aren’t you a bit young?”

“It’s an internship for my criminology class.” Sherlock lied. “Now please, can you look at the photos? This is John Watson, he’s a missing persons, and his phone was found in a carton from here. She is the one who found the phone.”

“Oh dear.” Fiona frowned. “I’m sorry, but they don’t look familiar at all. And I have a good memory for faces. Is there anything else I can help with?”

“The carton had a large number five written on it, orange ink.”

“That’s an egg salad on sourdough, and it had to have been from a Saturday. I like to use different colors on different days, liven things up a bit.” Liven things up? How dull must life be, that different colored pens made it interesting? How utterly simple must you be to find that interesting? It took everything within Sherlock to hold his tongue. As asinine as the color coding was, it might have just proved to be useful.

“I need to see the receipts from Saturday.”

“Alright, but I don’t think they’ll be much help.” Fiona sighed. “We’re cash only, so they’re pretty much just a record of the bill.”

Of course it was cash only, of course there was no paper trail to follow, no names to cross reference. “Do they at least have a time stamp, and order?” Sherlock asked.

“Time yes, but not what was ordered I’m afraid.”

“Never mind.” Sherlock’s patience was wearing dangerously thin. “What about the camera? Can I get copies of the recordings?”

Fiona winced. “It’s fake. It’s just a decoy. Make people think they’re on camera, deters theft.”

“Idiot!” Sherlock yelled, earning himself some started looks, not that he cared.

“I beg your pardon!”

“You’re an idiot. You’re absolutely useless.” Growled Sherlock, not holding himself back. “You have a FAKE security camera, and you can’t keep proper records. No wonder your son is skimming money off the top. If you want my advice, though I doubt you’re smart enough to take it, hand over the business to your daughter. By the looks of it, she’s the only one with the proper business sense to keep it running.”

Not waiting for a reply, Sherlock stood up and stormed out of the shop, promptly colliding with a middle-aged couple.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going!” The man barked, struggling to keep hold of the boxes he was carrying.

Sherlock returned the man’s fallen keys with a mumbled apology, then crouched down to help with woman collect the items that spilled out of the box she had dropped. They were clearly moving, somewhere subtropical if Sherlock were to guess, based on the amount of thin linen clothing littering the pavement.

“Dumb kid.” The man grumbled, heading over the car parked at the curb.

“Oh be quiet, Frank.” The woman rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about him, sweetie. It happens to the best of us. He’s just antsy to get everything shipped. I don’t know why, we don’t leave for another week. I think he just wants to make sure we all arrive around the same time.” She said with a smile, picking up the last of the clothes.

“No, he’s right. I ought to be more careful.” Sherlock mumbled, helping to put the box into the car. He didn’t know way, but something about this woman put him at ease. Anyone else blathering on like she was and he’d have already brought her to tears, airing every one of her secrets and insecurities.

“Well, don’t get all lost in that funny old head, and you should be fine.” The woman smiled. “But clearly you have some place to be, rushing about like that. Don’t let me keep you.”

With a small, but surprisingly unforced smile and nod, Sherlock was on his way. Somehow calmer, far calmer than he ought to be after dealing with the inept sandwich shop owner, Sherlock continued his search, finding himself refocused. And that’s how the rest of the week went, days spent combing the streets of London in a perfectly logical pattern, showing John’s photo to and questioning homeless and business people alike, checking in with the Yard – the duty of speaking with Sherlock seemed to have fallen upon Greg – and avoiding the occasional black town car, no doubt Mycroft enjoying the perks of his recent promotion.    

 

*******

 

“John!” Sherlock jolted awake at the feeling of a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a voice calling his name. It was Sunday night, almost a week to the hour since Sherlock last laid eyes on John, and Sherlock had apparently fallen asleep while going over the analysis of the mud found on John’s shoes, trying to map out matching soil samples.

“It’s just me.” His father said softly. “I think it’s about time you go to bed. You need to get some real sleep.”

“No, I’m fine. I have work to do.” Sherlock shook his head in an attempt clear away his exhausted confusion. It was stupid of him to let himself doze off, he was wasting precious time.

“We talked about this, Sherlock. You need to get back on a more regular schedule, meaning sleep, school, eating.”  School, Sherlock didn’t need school, he needed to find John. Going back to school just meant sitting there ‘learning’ things he’s known since he was ten, for seven hours that could be better used looking for John.

“And this will all still be here in the morning.” Mr. Holmes continued.  “Maybe you’ll spot something after a few hours in your comfortable bead; fresh eyes. You can’t help him if you’re dead on your feet.”

“No sleep, hours of sleep, what does it matter? There’s nothing, I can’t find anything!” Sherlock groaned, fisting at his hair.

Mr. Holmes took Sherlock’s hands, gently pulling them away from his hair. “We’ll find him. We will.” He said calmly.

“Is this my fault?” Sherlock asked quietly. “I drag him to crime scenes and we piss off a lot of people.” He paused, terrified to say out loud, to acknowledge what he’d feared the moment he realized John was missing. “Because I couldn’t leave well enough alone, did I get my… my best… did I get him taken?”

“Absolutely not! Don’t you even think that for one second, son.” Mr. Holmes crouched down, hugging Sherlock tight against him. “And you didn’t drag him anywhere. If memory serves, he followed you to that first scene, making sure you didn’t go alone. He’s just as excited to get new cases as you are.”

“I’m going to fine him.” Sherlock sniffled, his voice barely audible. He felt ridiculous, blubbering in his father’s arms like a child, but that didn’t stop the tears from falling down his cheeks.

“That’s right, you are.” Mr. Holmes said firmly. “Now come on.” And Sherlock allowed his father to half carry him to his room and tucks him into bed.

Just a few hours rest was all he need, a few hours and he’d be ready to start week two of the search. Sherlock was asleep before his father had even left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop there it is! I'm sure you can all figure out who has John now. 
> 
> And did you all catch the appearance of a certain someone who will become very important in our boys' lives?
> 
> Next up, Sherlock gets a scare, and John learns even more of his captor's motivations.
> 
> As always, comments and corrections are more than welcome!!


	7. Unidentified Male

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even as the investigation slows, Sherlock's resolve never falters. 
> 
> In captivity, John faces his kidnapper's questions, and sees how far he'll go for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, more interrogation typical violence in this chapter. Again, nothing graphic. I still hate myself.

Sherlock did eventually return to school, though he really only attended about half the time, often showing up late and leaving early. If he wasn’t already receiving top marks, the school would probably have taken issue with his lax attendance, but his assignments were completed and his quizzes were taken, so his teachers let it slide.

While he still spent hours scouring back alleys, jumping in skips, and questioning his developing homeless network; and though his dedication never wavered, staying up to all hours reviewing the evidence, the investigation slowed. Everything they found, all the evidence, confirmed John was kidnapped, but nothing pointed to where he was taken, or by whom. Sherlock even hacked into the New Scotland Yard server to receive alerts when anything was logged in relating to John, or even anyone fitting John’s description. It all seemed to lead nowhere; it was just a series of one dead end after another.

 

Two weeks into John’s disappearance, Sherlock sat in Biology, an empty seat to his left, when his phone pinged.

 

  * **Unidentified male recovered from Thames**
  * **Est. 24 to 48 hr in water**
  * **16 to 25 y.o.**
  * **Emaciated**
  * **Blond**
  * **Body sent to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital for postmortem**
  * **Officer of Record: Detective Inspector Alec MacDonald**



 

Sherlock had to read the alert twice, no, three times, before the words on the screen actually registered. In a heartbeat, he pushed back from his bench, and was out the door, barely remembering to grab his bag as he bolted from the classroom. Sherlock couldn’t breathe, he had to see, had to check, had make sure. It wasn’t John, it couldn’t be John, it couldn’t end like this.

“Sherlock! Sherlock wait!” Sherlock forced himself to stop at the end of the hall to allow a panting Molly to catch up to him. Normally he’d have just kept going, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and though he loathed to admit it, he might just need the support.

“What is it, Sherlock? What happened.” Molly asked when she finally reached him.

“Body.” Sherlock choked. “They found a body.” His cheeks were wet, he was crying. When did he start crying?

“It’s not…” Molly started fearfully.

“Here.” Sherlock shoved his phone into her hands. He couldn’t talk about this, he wouldn’t let himself even entertain the idea of it.

Molly took the phone, reading quickly before looking up. “We can’t know if it’s him.” She said.

“That’s why… That’s why I need… I need to make sure.”

“Ok.” Molly said quietly. “My uncle Matt’s probably on duty. We’ll talk to him. He’ll… he’ll let us in.” Of course, Matthew Sanderson, assistant medical examiner based at St. Bart’s Hospital, and Molly Hooper’s uncle. The number of times Sherlock took advantage of that connection, how could he forget? Stupid. He was being stupid, he was being careless.

Molly doesn’t say anything else, just marched on towards the school exit, bright pink backpack over her shoulders, leaving Sherlock to follow. His mum was right, Molly was a good friend to him, he honestly didn’t know what he did to deserve her. When this was all over, when he had John safely back again (because this body wasn’t going to be John), and he could think again, he’d figure out a way to show Molly how much she was valued.

 

*******

 

Sherlock flagged down a cab, and the half hour ride to St. Bart’s passed in complete silence. Molly wrung her hands the entire way, shooting anxious looks over at Sherlock every so often. She had tried calling her uncle, but there was no answer. Service was notoriously poor down in the… down there. They didn’t have the number for the landline, and just the thought of explaining why he needed to be connected to the… there, made Sherlock feel ill. And so they rode in silence, and with every passing second, Sherlock dread grew. What was he going to see when they finally reached Bart’s? What was he about to walk into? What if his nightmare was about to come true? What was he going to do if…

“Sherlock… Sherlock, we’re here.” Molly’s small voice pulled Sherlock back out of his own mind, her gentle hand rested on his arm.

The walk to Molly’s uncle’s office took an eternity. Had the hallway always been so long? And it was so deserted. All the times he’d been there before, he’d pass at least a couple people, but at the moment, there was no one. The only sound was the click, click, click of his and Molly’s footsteps echoing off the walls.

Finally reaching the end of the hall, Sherlock pushed through the door to the pathology office to find… nothing. It was empty, Molly’s uncle wasn’t there.

“He’s probably just gone for a coffee. We can just wait here, I’m sure he won’t mind.” Molly said, taking a seat on one of the threadbare chairs. Sherlock didn’t have time to wait, and instead left the office, and walked across the hall to the mortuary.

And there was the body, laid out on the table, a thin white sheet covering half of his frail looking frame. Sherlock approached the table slowly, heart racing, unable to breath, moving on autopilot. Steeling himself, Sherlock looked down at the blond, and his legs immediately gave out, leaving him crumpled on the sterile floor.

“Oh no, Sherlock… Is it?” Came Molly’s voice from the doorway.

“It’s not him.” Sherlock gasped, breathing heavily. “He’s not John.” He felt lightheaded.

“Oh thank God!” And suddenly Molly was down next to him on the floor, her arms thrown around his shoulders.

 

He didn’t know how long they sat there on the mortuary floor, Molly hugging him as tears of relief ran down his face, a poor unfortunate John Doe lying above them, because the next thing he knew, Sherlock heard the door swing open.

“What the hell’s going on in here?! Molly? Molly, what are you doing here?”

“Uncle Matt! I tried to call you, but I couldn’t get through.” Molly sniffled, standing up. “Sherlock got word that a body was found fitting John’s description. We… we needed to make sure it wasn’t him.” She explained quietly.

Abruptly, Sherlock felt two sets of arms lifting him off the ground and help him out the door, and back into Dr. Sanderson’s office.

“Here, drink this.” Dr. Sanderson said, handing cups of tea to both Sherlock and Molly. “Now I’m not even going to bother asking how you knew about the body, I’m just so sorry you had to worry like that. If reception wasn’t such crap down here, I’d have been able to tell you he wasn’t John. You must have been so frightened.”

“We’ll be okay, we’re just relieved.” Molly said. “That man in there, do you know who he is? What happened to him?” Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care who the body was or how he died, the important thing was that he wasn’t John, but Molly obviously did. Kindhearted Molly always seemed to care.

“Yeah we do. Don’t tell anyone I told you, but his name’s Jacob Wilson, living in Brixton. His prints were in the system, apparently has a record. B&E, and armed robbery, and some charges for dealing and possession. There wasn’t much evidence on him, but by the looks of it, he most likely overdosed. Horrible waste, only twenty – two. There was time, he could have turned his life around.” Dr. Sanderson mused. Compassion and optimism were clearly Sanderson/Hooper family traits.

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, yeah it is. Listen you two, I have to get back to work, but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.” Sherlock could see Sanderson eyeing him specifically.

“Thanks Uncle Matt.”

They sat for a while longer; Sherlock collected himself while Molly finished her tea. Sherlock only took a few cursory sips of his; there was far too much milk and far too few sugars for his liking. Finally when his nerves had settled, they got up and left. There was no point in bothering to return to school, and _‘not wanting to leave you alone right now’_ , Molly insisted on accompanying Sherlock home. What was it with the women in his life? First his mum, now Molly thinking him so fragile he needed a minder, even if he did lay sobbing on a mortuary floor not too long ago.

 

Just as they exited Bart’s, a black town car pulled up to the curb, and a driver stepped out. Sherlock just sighed and climbed in; he had to pop his head back out to assure Molly the car was indeed safe, and then they were on their way.

“Are you sure this is safe, Sherlock? What’s actually is this?” Molly asked, nervously looking around the car.

“It’s called a car, Molly. They’ve been around for quite awhile.”

“Funny.” Molly said flatly, rolling her eyes. “Seriously Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“My brother’s just throwing his ever expanding weight around, don’t worry.”

“And where exactly is he sending us?”

“If I were to hazard a guess,” and Sherlock never guessed, “I’d say our driver has orders to take me home. I can have him drop you off at your place, if you like.” He offered, and oh how he hoped she’d take him up on it.

“No, your house is fine.” No such luck. “I’ll hang out until your mum gets home, I’ve been meaning to thank her for… umm… uh, for keeping me updated.”

“Suit yourself.”

Like the cab ride to Bart’s, the ride back to Sherlock’s house passed in near silence, Molly looked out the window while Sherlock focused intently on his phone. If he looked busy, there was less of a chance Molly would bother him, she didn’t need to know he was reading over old text conversations, or flipping through certain photo albums.

 

******* 

 

“Mind if I do some homework?” Molly asked once they’d reached Sherlock’s house. “Maybe get a jump start on my English project.”

“Be my guest. You know where the kitchen is, if you want anything.” Sherlock muttered, as he disappeared  down the hall and into his evidence room. He had received a few more alerts from the Yard while they were at Bart’s he had yet to review, and perhaps they could give him something, open up new avenues of investigation.

As expected, new leads were too much to hope for. A few days earlier, one of Sherlock’s homeless contacts had found John’s laptop in a skip in Battersea, completely wiped. And after a bit of bribery, Sherlock was able to get his contact to turn it into the police. Well, Sherlock turned to the police only after his father caught him trying to use government resources to analyze and recover any data.  The analysis was back, and yet again, the Yard was able to get nothing. The hard drive was wiped completely blank _‘practically factory settings’_ , no trace was found whatsoever, and nothing in the skip produced anything. They weren’t even able to determine when the laptop was dumped.

 

Sherlock couldn’t say how long he tried to place the new evidence, or lack thereof, but he had started pacing when he heard footsteps approaching the door, clearly Molly.

“Have you started the Maths homework for Friday?” She said as she entered. “Oh… Oh wow. This is it, is it? This is everything you have on…”

“Obviously.” Bit Sherlock. “You didn’t think I’d actually leave it all to the police, did you?”

“No, it’s just… extensive.” Everything all laid out was quite something to take in, and when he thought about it, Sherlock didn’t think Molly had never actually seen him in full case mode.

“For all the he good it does me.” Sherlock grumbled, more to himself than Molly. “I keep hitting brick walls.”

“Well, why don’t you walk me through it?” Molly suggested, sitting down on one of the few empty patches on the bed.

“And you think you’ll notice something I haven’t?” Sherlock scoffed. He knew he shouldn’t be so rude, but honestly.

“Probably not, but you might. Going through it start to finish might spark something. The brain’s funny like that.”

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock started explaining the timeline, going over the interviews, and dissecting every lab analysis and report. As he spoke, Molly sat and listened quietly, nodding along, never interrupting.

“Now his computer has given us nothing, other than his kidnapper is tech savvy. But this is London, the entire city is crawling with people capable of cleaning a computer like this.” Sherlock was babbling. “And I spoke to everyone who lives and works around there, and they didn’t see anything. I’ve spoken to everyone connected to anywhere even remotely connected to the search, and I get nothing!”

“Well it sounds to me like we need to get more people looking.” Molly offered once Sherlock had finished.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do the entire time!” Sherlock growled. Christ, was she even listening to him?

“But the kidnapping hasn’t really been publicized, has it. What about flyers, ads? We can get the word out, get people on the lookout, without having to go from person to person.”

“I’m an idiot!” Sherlock berated himself. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You’ve been busy doing the actual investigation.” Molly tried to comfort him, it didn’t work. God, he might have had John home already if he had just thought logically for a second. He wasted so much time dealing with individuals when he could have mobilized all of London. Idiot, failing John at every turn. John deserved so much better than him.

“You’re a true genius Molly Hooper, thank you.”

“Nah, I’m really not. I’m just a stand in.” Molly smirked. “And I honestly can’t wait until my services are not longer needed, and I can go back to being your in at Bart’s and occasional study buddy” she added with a tired laugh.

 

By the time Mrs. Holmes got home that afternoon, a couple hours earlier than usual, Sherlock and Molly had already designed a poster, and drafted some ideas for ads.  And over the next few days, Sherlock, with some assistance, had all but papered London with missing persons posters, and taken out ad space in every newspaper and on every news site. When he was done, there wasn’t a soul in London who hadn’t seen John’s face in one way or another.

 

* * *

 

It was the same thing almost every day. Twice a day a meal would slide in through the door, and twice a day he’d be escorted to the bathroom. Occasionally John would find a dull razor, and would be allowed a wash, but it was cursory at best. He never got truly clean, his face remained covered in uneven stubble, his hair got tangled. The lighting was one thing that did change. Sometimes the single bulb burned around the clock, and at other times, John would be plunged into darkness for hours on end. There was no pattern, no way to predict when it would happen. It was all part of the plan to disorient and confuse him, John figured.

Mostly John was confined to his cell, but every few days the Jailer would come to collect him, and take him to the other room to be questioned. The Voice wanted to know everything about Sherlock, every personal detail John could provide. He wanted to know what made Sherlock tick, why he was so interested in _solving_ crime, _helping_ the police, and why he chose John, what John provided. John gave the Voice nothing, every question was met with either silence, or defiance. For every question that went unanswered and every time John talked back, John was hit. He was punched, he was kicked, his limbs were restrained and twisted, but still he gave them nothing. John knew they wouldn’t stop, the Voice was enjoying it too much. Cuts and bruises could heal, but there was no going back from betraying Sherlock, and that’s something John could never do.

In the hours he was alone in his cell, John filled the time with thoughts of home. He remembered the better times, before his mother fell ill. He and Harry would spend hours ‘helping’ their mother in her beloved garden. His mother didn’t have a green thumb to save her life, but oh did she try. One type of flower would die, so she’d try another. The memory of her spinning her children around when they discovered they’d grown three whole tomatoes still made him smile. John filled the cold, lonely hours with thoughts of a happier home and his friends, but mostly he thought of Sherlock. He thought of the adrenaline fueled chases through London, of childhood afternoons playing with Redbeard, and of the countless quiet moments where they were just together. During the particularly difficult times, usually after he had been questioned and he was nursing his injuries, John would let himself imagine about what came next, what the future held for him and Sherlock. Sherlock would no doubt have the world at his fingertips, and John would be there beside him for as long as Sherlock wished it. John was going to support Sherlock when Sherlock needed support, he was going to hold Sherlock when Sherlock needed to be held, and he was going to encourage Sherlock when Sherlock needed encouragement.  John was going to get out of this, because John had a future to uphold.

 

It was about two weeks in by John’s estimation, when the Voice finally snapped.

"What makes you so special!?” he growled, leaning in close, almost revealing himself from the shadows, almost.

John was exhausted, in pain, and for once, gave his captor the truth. “I’m…. I’m not… I don’t know.”

“Too right you aren’t!” the Voice snarled. “But Sherlock seems to think you are, so why does he keep you around? What do you _offer_ him?” The abrupt softness of the tone sent a shiver down John’s spine.

“I’m his friend. I… I accept him.”

“Oh, I think it’s a bit more than that.”

And suddenly picture after picture of John and Sherlock kissing was projected on the wall. There were so many pictures; if played fast enough, it would almost look like a video. John had relived that evening over and over in his mind to get him through this ordeal, but to see it projected in front of him, to know they were being watched, to see it used like this, gave him chills. John felt ill.

“What gives you the right to do this?! To touch him like this?... Hmm?... This sickening nonsense is beneath Sherlock Holmes, and yet you insist on trying to make him _ordinary._ ” The Voice spit in disgust.

“Hate to break it to you, but Sherlock kissed me first.” John sneered. “And when I kissed him back, he was _really_ into it.” The Jailers fist connected with his mouth, and John could feel his lip split as it hit against his teeth.

“A lapse in judgment, it happens to the best of us.” The Voice sniffed.

“I don’t know, something tells me he wanted his judgment to lapse _over and over_ that night.” John grinned, spitting out some blood. “Hell, if I didn’t slow us down, I bet there would have been a lot more than just _touching._ ” He was just taunting the Voice, and he liked it.

The rifle butt to his head didn’t come as a surprise, neither did the headache when he awoke an hour later in his cell. It was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remind me again why I'm putting these two through all this. Oh right, to give them a happily ever after!
> 
> Next up, John's kidnapping gets attention, and Sherlock just might catch a break.
> 
> Remember, comments, critiques, and corrections are very much welcomed!


	8. Find John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With all of London now looking for John, Sherlock may get the break he's been looking for. In the mean time, the Met tries to get Sherlock's mind off the search, even for a little while.
> 
> Elsewhere, John's situation becomes more dire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any fellow Americans: Happy Thanksgiving.  
> To all non-Americans: Happy Thursday.
> 
> Again, I've been mean to John. I'm sorry. Also, I should note that the website in this chapter is fake, obviously

The missing persons posters and ads garnered some attention, but it wasn’t until Sherlock successful hacked the BBC News ticker to include a notice about John, that things really took off. Every tenth item on the ticker app, on the website, and during broadcasts, read:

' _Missing Persons Alert: John Watson, age 18, medium build, 5’6”, short blond hair, blue eyes. Last seen at 11 pm on 12. April, near West Barlow Road, London. If you have any information, please contact New Scotland Yard and/or Sherlock Holmes at_ _www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/find_john_watson_ _.’_

The website received dozens of messages a day, and Lestrade and her team were inundated with calls. There were a number of pranks, and the majority lead nowhere, but it meant people were looking, it meant John wasn’t forgotten or ignored.

 

John had been missing for a month when the news, triggered by the attention the ticker hack attracted, started running stories on John’s disappearance and on the search. There were a number of clips of Mr. Watson portrayed as the frightened widowed father, desperate for his son back. If tugging at the nation’s heartstrings got John back, Sherlock wasn’t going to complain. But knowing that if it were left to Mr. Watson, there would have been no investigation, and John would just be another runaway,  and seeing him play a victim, rubbed Sherlock the wrong way.

The DIs Whately and Lestrade were interviewed, appealing for information. It was mentioned that John had aided in a number of criminal investigations, and it was asked if perhaps the kidnapping was some sort of retaliation, to which Lestrade and Whately categorically denied the idea. When asked why Lestrade, a homicide detective, was investigating a missing person, and if they believed John had been murdered, Lestrade remained calm but adamant. 

_“We have no reason to believe that at this time. I was asked to investigate this case with our missing persons unit because I know John personally, and my superiors believe my insight will be valuable to the investigation.”_

Though what she said was true, there was every reason to believe John was still alive, it did nothing to stop the speculation and rumors.

Sherlock was mentioned a number of times in the various pieces as John’s best friend, and the one spearheading the search. There were a few requests for interviews, all of which he refused. It was hardly difficult to figure out he was behind the BBC ticker notice, and inevitably the reporters would try to make the story about him and his quest to find his missing friend. The focus had to remain on John and only John. Sherlock didn’t trust himself to not lash out when interviewers tried to talk about him instead of John, or to not have a breakdown on camera. Neither of which would be any help to John. He was holding it together by the thinnest of emotional threads as it was, and if anything else went wrong, it might snap.

 

*******

 

Thoughts of John filled Sherlock’s mind. Days were spent focused on finding new leads, sussing out the genuine calls and messages, from the useless. At night, Sherlock dreamed only of John, at least nights when he actually managed to sleep, or rather when he passed out from exhaustion. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they were actually dreams, but more often than not, what little sleep he got was plagued with nightmares.  Sometimes when he’d close his eyes, it was John’s body the police had dragged from the Thames. His body riddled with cuts and bruises, track marks running up his arms, all signs of living on the streets. The empty shell of John’s broken body haunting Sherlock, asking why Sherlock abandon him, why he wasn’t faster, better, why he couldn’t save him. Other times he’d relieve their last night together, but John would pull away from their kisses, laughing, taunting Sherlock.  John would tell Sherlock that he disgusted him, that he could never be interested in someone like Sherlock, in ‘the freak.’ John never wanted to see him again, Sherlock was the reason John left, was the reason John was in danger. But very rarely, perhaps only once or twice, Sherlock dreamed of the future, a bright future where John was happy and safe and by his side. John was the doctor he’d always dreamed he’d be, and Sherlock was solving crimes full time. They’d run through the streets, and fall into bed at night to wake in each other’s arms. Those were the dreams from which he never wanted to wake. He always awoke with a sense of hope, only to realize he was alone, slumped over his desk, or occasionally in his bed, his arms empty, and he ached.

The nightmares left Sherlock petrified, made him want to curl up in on himself and shut down. It was those dreams of a life with John that kept Sherlock sane, that got him moving, and kept him looking. Even if those dreams never came true, and ten years down the road John didn’t want to be with him – because he couldn’t expect John to always feel the way he did at fifteen – Sherlock was going to make damn sure John got the chance to reject him in ten years.

 

*******

 

Sherlock’s days become a routine; make an appearance at school to turn in and receive assignments (Molly always took excellent notes, and kept him updated), he’d sift through the days messages and tips, then he’d go to New Scotland Yard and Greg would update him on any new developments. After the daily updates, Greg eventually took to trying to distract Sherlock with ‘interesting’ cases, obviously working on his mother’s orders. At any other time, and under any other circumstances, Sherlock would have actually found a few of the cases mother and son Lestrade attempted to bribe him with, interesting. But it was neither the time, nor was Sherlock in the correct state.

About four weeks after John disappeared, just after the first news story aired, was Maureen Nelson, the drowning victim found by joggers nowhere near water. She was twenty-eight, a veterinarian beloved by her patients’ owners, found in the park with pool water filling her lungs. There were no signs of struggle and no indication her body was ever moved. Lestrade eventually arrested the roommate, apparently she didn’t like Maureen’s dog and just snapped. The roommate was a youth swimming couch, and figured the pool water would distract the police. Something about the resolution sat funny with Sherlock when Greg told him a week later, but he deleted it nearly as soon as he heard it. Different time, different circumstances.

It was a month and a half since John went missing when Greg excitedly told Sherlock that they got the Connie Prince case. Sherlock had never heard of her, she was some sort of up and coming style diva just making a name for herself doing makeovers on local chat show. She just dropped dead for no apparent reason, at the age of thirty-nine. Sherlock did actually look at the case, it was hard not to when Greg all but shoved the crime scene photos in his face. If only they were so accommodating when he actually wanted in on an investigation, Sherlock thought to himself. Looking at the photos, Sherlock noticed nearly invisible pin-pricks along Connie’s hairline and around her eyes. PC Lestrade told DI Lestrade, and it was quickly determined Ms. Prince died of a fatal dose of Botox, administered by Raoul de Santos, her personal assistant and her brother’s boyfriend.  The praise and thanks he received from Lestrade felt stale, felt empty without John to share it with.

There was no rush from a puzzle solved. A mystery set before him held no thrill. The only thing he truly wanted, the only case he wanted closed, lay just out of reach.

 

* * *

 

John didn’t know how long he had been gone, held by a psychopath and his mindless lacky. It had to be over a month, but the days started to blur together, and John didn’t know if he could trust the count he had been keeping. It could have been years, it felt like years.

 

Once again John found himself in the room, strapped to the chair. It seemed the Voice had tired of questioning him only to get no answers, and had instead taken to taunting John.

“You know he’s still looking? He probably just likes the whole mystery of it all. I can give him that, you know? Mysteries, intrigue, excitement.” The Voice mused, circling around John. “Don’t read too much into it Johnny boy, he’ll crack any day now and just give up. The novelty will eventually are off, and he’ll be bored. He don’t actually care, you see.” He hummed.

“Really? Because if what you say is true, it seems like finding me is all he cares about.” John said through grit teeth, his jaw still aching from the Jailers last hit.

The pain in John’s jaw soon became a distant memory as the Voice flicked his wrist, and the Jailer freed John’s left arm. Before John could even think to do something, the Jailer wrenched the arm back, and John’s shoulder was dislocated. The pain was nauseating, if he had eaten that day, John surely would have vomited. He felt his muscles spasm, and possibly tear. To keep from screaming, John bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted blood.

“Then maybe I should just kill you now and dump your body.” The Voice hissed. “Then our Sherlock can finally stop his search, and get on to what he’s meant to be doing.”

“And what’s that?” John tried to say, but it came out more as a groan.

“Joining me, you idiot. I did tell you when we first met. Or I guess when we first met  _here_ .” The Voice giggled. He actually giggled, as if this were all a joke.

“So why keep me this long? Why do all this if you were just planning on killing me anyway?”

“Because it’s fun.” The Voice answered flatly. “And just think how much fun Sherlock will have deducing your corpse. He can  _deduce_ everything that’d been done to his little pet, he can see all the ways I’ve broken you.”

“You’re insane.” John yelled.

“Obviously.” The Voice said sounding as if he were moving towards the door. “We’re done for now. Darling, if you would.”

The pain in John’s shoulder suddenly turned into a dull, throbbing ache, as the Jailer forced it back into place.

 

As John lay on the thin mattress in his cell that evening – or morning, John couldn’t tell – he turned over everything that happened, everything he learned. Sherlock hadn’t give up on him yet, Sherlock was still looking. The thought emboldened him. John had to remain strong; he had to keep fighting this, because Sherlock deserved a proper thank you, and John meant to be the one to deliver it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was just leaving the Yard two months into John’s disappearance, when he was approached by a homeless man. A homeless boy was a better description; the kid couldn’t have been older than Sherlock. He was tall, thin, and twitchy, nervous. He wasn’t part of the network, and Sherlock had never seen him before, but he seemed to know Sherlock.

“You Sherlock Holmes?” The kid asked, definitely nervous.

“I am. And you are?”

“Wiggins, Billy Wiggins.”

“What do you want… Billy.” Sherlock did not have time for dawdling.

“I think I saw your friend, the one who’s missing.”

That got Sherlock’s attention, though this Billy would not have been the first person to stop Sherlock on the street, claiming to have seen John working at Harrods, or pan handling at Victoria Station. But something in Sherlock’s gut, and he never gave credence to ‘gut feelings’, told him Billy had something, that this was real.

“When? Where? How do you know it was John?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“Can we… can we not do it here?” Billy said, glancing anxiously at the police headquarters.

“Why not?” Sherlock’s patience was wearing thin, he needed answers.

“I… I just don’t like the police is all.” Billy shrugged.

“Oh god, fine! Come on.” Sherlock groaned, setting off down a side street. If this kid was messing about, if he was lying, there was going to be hell to pay.

“There, is this good?” Sherlock snapped once they were out of sight of the Yard, and Billy nodded. “Now where did you see John? When? I need to know everything, don’t leave anything out?”

“I was out one night… uh… making a purchase.” Billy said cautiously.

“I don’t care if you’re a junkie.” Sherlock sighed. “What. Happened!?”

“Right, right. So I was out, and I saw a couple of guys walking towards me, and they was supporting their drunk friend.”

“Is there a point? Get to the point.” Bit Sherlock. If this kid didn’t start giving answers, Sherlock couldn’t be held accountable for his actions, he thought.

“Yeah, right, sorry.” Billy stumbled. “It was all so weird. I know what drunk looks like, and this guy weren’t drunk. Plus the other two guys, the ones dragging him, they was dressed normal, hoodies, jeans, you know. But the drunk guy, he looked like he was in his pajamas, stocking feet and all.”

Sherlock felt his heart start to pound, this was it, this was the lead he’d been waiting for, and he motioned for Billy to continue.

“Yeah, anyway, the guy in the pajamas, well he looked an awful lot like your missing friend.”

“When was this, when did you see him?” Sherlock breathed, mind racing.

“Couple months back.” Billy said slowly, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

“MONTHS!?” Sherlock yelled. “Why didn’t you come forward sooner? Why didn’t you go to the police? Why did you wait until now? How are you so sure?”

“Well I don’t want the police to know I was looking for drugs, do I? Plus, I didn’t know he was missing till recently.” Billy said, getting defensive. “I’ve been away, getting clean. My dealer weren’t there that night, so I went home instead. Found my step-dad beating on my mum. If I had scored, been high, I wouldn’t have found out, I wouldn’t have been able to stop him. Decided to get clean then and there. Everything detail about that night stuck in my memory.”

“Fine, I get it. Just shut up!” Billy was rambling, and Sherlock didn’t have time for rambling.

“Where did this happen?” Sherlock asked. The kidnappers were smart, they had to know Sherlock would be looking for John, so the probably wouldn’t have risked moving him. There was a good chance he was still wherever they took him that night.

“I was on East Bayard, that’s in Brixton.” Billy added. “And they, the guys dragging your friend, were walking north, I think.” So much for remember  _everything_ detail about that night. “But they turned a corner, and I don’t know where they ended up. The whole area’s mostly empty store fronts.”

“That’s fine. I have access to CCTV, I can follow them.” Sherlock muttered, already starting to formulate a plan.

“No luck. Cameras don’t work. Broken.” Billy winced.

“How can you be sure?” Sherlock asked, turning back to face Billy.

“That’s where my dealer works. He makes sure they stay broken.” Said Billy with a shrug.

Sherlock began to pace. It was alright, just minor inconvenience. It was the best lead Sherlock had since the investigation began, it very well could be the break he needed, and Sherlock was not going to let a few broken CCTV cameras derail everything.

He could figure out where John’s captors were keeping him, he just had to think, had to process. Anomalies, if Sherlock could find something that didn’t fit, that was out of place, he would find John.

“POWER!” Sherlock gasped. Empty store fronts don’t have power, or much of it, if he just looked for any atypical power usage, he would fine John.

This was it, Sherlock thought as he bolted back towards New Scotland Yard, leaving Billy behind. He was going to find John, he was about to get John back! Sherlock had just turned on to the main street, when he felt the sudden jab of a needle in his neck, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, The search is finally over and they're FINALLY reunited, though maybe not in the best of circumstances. But where's the fun in making things easy.
> 
> Again, comments and corrections are welcome!


	9. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are finally reunited. Unfortunately, they aren't out of the woods yet.

_“Sherlock, open your eyes. Come on Sherlock, wake up.”_

Sherlock was in a haze, his head was heavy, and though his eyes were closed, he felt dizzy. But even through the haze, that voice he knew as well as his own, broke through; as did the feeling of a hand gently sweeping over his cheek. Opening his eyes made his head spin, his vision was blurry, but eventually the room stopped spinning, and Sherlock was able to focus.

There, leaning over him, calling his name, and cradling his head in his lap, was John. Shaggier hair, uneven stubble, but it was definitely John. Sherlock had every detail of John’s face permanently stored in his mind palace, but nothing compared to staring into those beautifully deep, dark blue eyes in person.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, struggling to sit up, to get a grip on John, to make sure John was really there.

“Wow, careful now.” John said softly. “If this is anything like when I woke up, you’re going to want to take it easy for a bit.” And he gently guided Sherlock to sit with his back against a wall, concrete by the feel of it.

“Oh god, it’s really you!” Sherlock cried, grabbing John, pulling him to him. The relief of having John there, solid, in his arm, made Sherlock feel weak, or perhaps it was the sedative.

“Yeah, it’s me. I knew you’d find me. I knew it.” John’s voice was muffled as he clutched Sherlock, his face buried in Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock didn’t know how long they sat there, clinging to each other. Nor did he know when he started crying. It could have been hours, him sat on what appeared to be an old mattress, holding John tight, tears running down his face. “I never stopped looking, never”, he murmured over and over.

Eventually they had to pull away, their tight grip on each other making breathing a bit difficult. Based on the puffiness around John’s eyes, he had been crying too.

“How are you feeling?” John sniffled. “Your head clearing up?”

“How am I feeling?” Sherlock said with a wet sounding laugh. John, ever the caregiver. “You’re the one who’s been missing, kept prisoner for two months, and you ask me how I’m feeling.”

“Two months.” Breathed John. “Well I guess my count wasn’t too far off.” He chuckled, nodding toward tick marks on the opposite wall.

“Two months and four days.” Sherlock sniffed. “You were just gone! I went over to your house that next day when you didn’t show up to school. I just thought you were sick, but when I got there, there was a police officer leaving, and you were gone.”

“My dad called the police? He was worried?” John asked quietly. Sherlock saw the look cross John’s face, he may never have had a good relationship with his father, but that never stopped John from wishing.

“Well…” Sherlock hesitated, he almost didn’t want to tell John the rest, and just let him believe Mr. Watson searched day and night for his son. “He found a note. It was supposed to be from you saying you’d left and to not look for you. He wanted to report you as a runaway just in case.”

“Runaway? Sherlock, you have to know I’d never run away. Please tell me you didn’t believe it?” John pled, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“Never, John. Never.” Sherlock said quickly, savoring the feel of John’s hands on his cheeks, he was so afraid he’d never feel John’s warmth again. “Everything was all wrong, it was so obvious you didn’t run away. All the evidence  _proved_ you didn’t run away, but that was it. There was no sign of what actually happened, where you were taken, or who took you.” He knew he was getting frantic, but he didn’t care, John had to know. “I was so afraid, I was so afraid I’d never see you again. But I never stopped looking, please believe me. I never gave up trying to find you.”

John just hugged Sherlock closer, mumbling something Sherlock couldn’t quite hear. He was able to make out the words ‘never’ and ‘doubt’.

After a few minutes of clinging to each other again, Sherlock proceeded to tell John everything about his search, from recruiting his parents and convincing Lestrade to lead the investigation, to Molly and his posters. John actually managed a laugh when Sherlock told him about commandeering the BBC news ticker. Sherlock finished up by telling him about the news stories, the countless calls, and the website.

John grinned. “I knew you’d be looking, I knew you’d find me.”

Even in the bleak setting, under the harsh lighting, Sherlock thought it was beautiful, John grinning, his eyes almost sparkling. He had so much faith in Sherlock, faith Sherlock didn’t deserve.

“But I didn’t find you.” Sherlock said quietly, feeling defeated. “I got a lead, but before I could do anything, I was drugged and woke up here. I don’t even know how long I was out!”

“Well you were here for about an hour before you woke up.” John supplied. “I was told to stand facing the wall, and I heard something drop on the ground. When I turned around and saw it was you, I thought I was dreaming. Well, you were unconscious and in this place, so I thought it was a nightmare.” He finished, shrugging sheepishly.

And that’s when Sherlock saw it, the wince. When John moved his left shoulder, he winced. Only then did Sherlock actually notice what John looked like. Before he was too focused on John’s face, on his eyes and his smile. Besides the shaggy hair, and stubble, John was thinner, maybe twenty pounds or so. No longer leanly muscled, John looked peaky. But worst of all, there were injuries. Yellowing bruises along John’s jaw, a recently healed cut on his lip, ligature marks on his raw looking wrists. Sherlock felt sick just thinking about what all John’s clothing might be, and probably were, hiding.

“John, you’re hurt!” Sherlock exclaimed, before gently taking John’s chin in his hand to examine the cuts and bruises. “Oh god.” He breathed. “What did they do to you? What happened?”

John was reluctant at first, but eventually explained everything that happened after he left Sherlock that night. He started getting ready for bed when he got home, not knowing there was anyone else in the house.

“By the time I figured out I wasn’t alone, it was too late, and he had already jabbed me. Then I was here.”

Sherlock listened intently, never once interrupting as John explained how the days passed. The food deliveries, the trips the bathroom, and occasional chances for a wash, and the intermittent lighting; John told Sherlock everything. He told him everything but how he got his injuries, John never said a word about his captors.

“And these?” Sherlock asked quietly, indicating the bruises. He hated how his voice cracked, but he needed to know.

“Yeah… that… Ok, just know that I’m fine. I’m really, really alright.” Sherlock took John’s hand, giving it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. John took a deep breath and continued. “So I’m pretty sure there are only two of them. The one calling the shots, and the other one is kind of the muscle, a lacky.”

“And they did this to you?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“Yeah.  The second guy, the lacky, he’s tall, probably late twenties, barely talks, other than to bark orders. He’s the one who does all the dirty work, the umm.” John then gestured towards his injuries. If Sherlock squeezed John’s hand a bit harder, John didn’t say anything. “Every few days or so he takes me to another room, and I’m strapped to a chair, and ahh… interrogated.”

“They beat you, you mean.” Sherlock’s voice wavered. John strapped to a chair, interrogated, blooded, he was nauseated.

“Only when I talked back.” John laughed. It did nothing to calm Sherlock.

“What about the other one. You said he’s the one in control.” Sherlock had to know everything about these kidnappers, if they were going to get out of this, he had to know why.

“I… I’ve never seen him. He’s only ever stayed in the shadows or behind me out of sight. He asks all the questions, and give the other one orders to… yeah. But I don’t think he’s very old.” John adds quickly. “He’s got a light voice, but it gets harsh and drops quickly before going light again. Not very tall, maybe a couple inches taller than me, based on his outline, I’ve seen his outline.” He was clearly holding something back, trying to distract Sherlock with details. It wasn’t going to work.

“What did he ask you?”

John remained quiet for a while before answering. When he did finally answer, he did so slowly and cautiously, as if he were dealing with a feral animal. Though based on how Sherlock was feeling at the moment, it was a rather apt description.

“He, the one in charge, he’d ask me all about you. He said he wanted to know what made me special… to you. He wants me out of the picture, so he can have you. He thinks you’ll join him eventually.”

It was like a punch the gut, Sherlock felt all the oxygen leave his body. He was the reason John was taken, was tortured, it really was all his fault. All the strength left Sherlock’s body, leaving him lightheaded and weak, and this time it wasn’t the sedatives.

Breathing heavily, Sherlock had to take a few moments to regain his composure.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock was unable to even meet John’s eye. “I’m so, so sorry. I did this to you. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I never wanted this to happen.”

“Hey. Hey, Sherlock. Sherlock look at me.” John said, gripping Sherlock’s chin, forcing Sherlock to look at him. “Don’t you dare blame yourself! This is why I didn’t even want to  tell you.” He sighed. “It’s not your fault some whackjob is obsessed with you.”

“I know, but…”

“But nothing.” John interrupted. “You didn’t cause this. Thinking of you out there, knowing that you were looking for me, knowing you would find me, that’s what kept me going. The only thing you’re responsible for is giving me a reason to get out of this hellhole.”

Wonderful John. Utterly perfect John, John who had been held prisoner for months, who had endured beatings. John who Sherlock should be supporting, and taking care of, who was instead making sure Sherlock was alright. Sherlock wiped his eyes again. When did he become such a crier? It was pathetic.

“I’m going to get you out of here, us out of here. I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Sherlock said, taking hold of John’s shoulders, mindful of his injuries.

“I don’t doubt you for a second.” John smiled. “But there is one thing you can do for me now. I’ve been thinking about it almost every moment since I’ve been locked up in this place.”

“What? Anything, I’ll do anything.” Sherlock said, as if he could deny John anything.

“This.” And John leaned forward capturing Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss. The kiss was chaste, John lips were dry and cracked, but it was like water and Sherlock had come out of a desert.

For a moment, Sherlock forgot that they were locked up in a concrete prison at the mercy of a psychopath obsessed with him, and the universe condensed to just the two of them, together. Allowing his arms to drape lightly over John’s shoulders, Sherlock savored the feel of lips brushing against lips. Just as Sherlock was tilting his head, about to pull John in tighter and deepen the kiss, John pulled away. A small whimper escaped as Sherlock tried to recapture John’s mouth. John just grinned and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“So no objections then?” John asked, still grinning, his eyes slowly opening to stare into Sherlock’s.

“Yes.” Sherlock hummed. “I mean no. No, I don’t object. You can… again.” John had just kissed him, he could barely string two words together, let alone form a coherent thought.

“Good.” John chuckled. “Because that was even better than I remembered.” And then they were kissing again. He relished the feeling of kissing John. Lips parting, teeth nipping, Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth. Maybe it was John who moaned, he honestly couldn’t tell anymore. All Sherlock knew was that he didn’t want it to stop. Investigations held no appeal, breathing became boring, everything just took away from the time he could be kissing John. John’s lips parting and coming together, pressing and moving against his, John tentatively biting down on Sherlock’s bottom lip, only to kiss it again, left Sherlock breathless, left his head spinning. He could spend the rest of his life doing this, kissing John and being kissed by John.

Eventually – minutes, hours, days later – the kisses slowed, and Sherlock and John sat on the thin mattress in their cold cell, holding each other and breathing together.

“The only thing I don’t understand,” John said eventually, “is why they kidnapped you. He wants you to join him, kidnapping’s hardly going to convince you.”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad they did.” Sherlock said, John just looked confused. “Because now I’m with you, and we can get out of this together.”

“You and me against the rest of the world.” John grinned, tilting his head to give Sherlock another quick, gentle kiss.

“Well isn’t this a precious moment. With the way you boys were going at it, I thought I was going to need to get the water hose soon!” Both Sherlock and John jerked towards the lilting, horribly familiar voice from the doorway, Sherlock hadn’t even heard the door open, but the dark figure was obscured by shadows.

“And to answer Johnny Boy’s question,” the figure continued, “you got too close to finding your precious pet before I could properly break you. I had to change the plan. If I can’t convince you out there, I’m just going to have to do it here… by force.” And then, stepping out from the shadows, dark eyes gleaming, not a single dark hair out of place, teeth baring grin stretched across his young face, was Jay.

“You.” Sherlock breathed.

“Me!...  Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, because you didn't all figure that out already. But at least it's confirmation. And hey, at least John and Sherlock are reunited at last. Nine chapters, took me long enough!
> 
> Next up, Jim tries to "convince" Sherlock, Sherlock resists.
> 
> Comments and corrections are always welcome!


	10. Insanity Doesn't Need a Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty shows just how far he's willing to go, and has gone, to 'woo' Sherlock. But Sherlock isn't so easily wooed, and he and John plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More references to torture and physical abuse. But at least the boys have each other to make it all a little better.

Soon after Jim Moriarty made his entrance, a tall, well muscled, gun toting man who just screamed 'ex-military’, appeared at his shoulder. It took only a nod from his boss, and the man shoved the butt of his gun into John’s gut, sending him falling backwards, and wrenched Sherlock away, manhandling him out of the room. Sherlock could still hear John yelling for him, as he was marched into a second room and forced down and restrained in one of two chairs. This must have been the room where John was beaten, and it looked like it was Sherlock’s turn. Only after he was strapped into place, the man disappeared, and Sherlock was left alone.

He was only alone for about a minute and a half when the man reappeared, and John was strapped into the chair facing Sherlock, sporting a fresh cut across his cheek.

“There darling, are you comfortable?” Asked Moriarty, practically draping himself over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“GET OFF HIM!” Shouted John. His heavy chair, which was not bolted to the floor like Sherlock’s, almost tipped over as he struggled against his restraints, attempting to get to Sherlock.

“Hush now Johnny boy, the grown-ups are talking. Don’t make me gag you.” Moriarty sneered, moving to stand in front of Sherlock, blocking his view of John.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice level, trying to sound calm. “Why me? Why are you so interested in me?”

“Oh I’ve been watching you for years now. It’s been absolutely  _ages_ .” Pouted Moriarty.

“When? Why?” Sherlock racked his brain trying to think when he might have crossed paths with this psychopath. Moriarty came to the school six months ago, and before that, nothing. Sherlock had never seen him before.

“Does the name Carl Powers ring a bell?”

“Carl…” Sherlock breathed. His first case, his first  _unsolved_ case.

“You killed him? You killed Carl Powers?” Sherlock heard John yell from behind Moriarty, still struggling in his chair by the sound of it

Moriarty ignored John, his focus trained entirely on Sherlock. “Poor Carl Powers, having a fit in the pool; you were the only one to notice something wasn’t right. Too bad you couldn’t convince anyone else to listen to you. But you did catch my eye.”

“This is all because of Carl Powers? Because I thought something was off?”

“What, you think I didn’t keep a close eye on the investigation? Like I said, you caught my eye and I watched you. It all could have been a fluke, they’ve been known to happen, but it wasn’t. No, you’re good, you see things other people don’t.” Moriarty leaned in close, his face mere inches from Sherlock’s. “You’re special, Sherlock Holmes. You’re not like the ordinary people.” He said, motioning toward John.

“So what?”

“So what?” Moriarty faux gasped. “So together you and I can do  _amazing_ things. You’ll never achieve your full potential chaining yourself to  _his_ type, chaining yourself to the police. You’re siding with the angels, Sherlock, and it will be your downfall.” Moriarty leaned in close, whispering in Sherlock’s ear. His breath tickled Sherlock’s ear, sending waves of revulsion through him.

“You have nothing to offer. I’ll stick with the angels.” Sherlock spat, no longer trying to placate his captor.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been giving you cases all this time, and you just won’t bite. Too busy moaning, and moping for your poor lost pet.” Moriarty finally turned away, and walked to stand behind John. “‘Oh where is John? I can’t find John? I miss John. Boo-hoo-hoo.’ Pathetic! If only you’d paid attention, you might have found Johnny boy  _weeks_ ago!” He taunted.

The past two months flashed through Sherlock’s head, he began seeing the connections he’d missed and ignored. “The woman with pool water in her lungs. John’s shoes with…”

“With traces of chlorine and covered in soil form just outside. FINALLY he gets it.” Moriarty cheered, spinning in place. “And what about your friend Jacob Wilson? He played a part in this too, didn’t you realize? Conducted business right across the street. Connie Prince too! Died just the same as our dear Mr. Powers. Though I didn’t expect you to get that one, that was just me having a bit of fun!”

The body from the Thames, the one he feared was John. Everything, all the evidence from the past two months pointed right to where John was being held, and he missed it. He looked up a John, blood drying on his cheek, restraints digging into his arms and legs, and still he looked at Sherlock with hope and trust. Sherlock didn’t deserve John’s trust, or his admiration. Sherlock had failed him, he had failed him spectacularly.

“You killed all those people for what, a game?” Sherlock’s voice was harsh as he stared directly into Moriarty’s cold, dark eyes. “You’re insane if you think I’d ever work with you.”

“Oh, I was so hoping you’d say that. Seb…” Moriarty laughed, signaling to his lacky.

Sherlock could only scream as he watched as a gun collided with John’s temple, knocking him unconscious.

“I’m rather enjoying this little game of ours. I’m going to break your spirit, Sherlock Holmes. And then I’m going to rebuild you.” Sneered Moriarty.

Before Sherlock could even register what was happening, he felt the butt of the same gun come down on his head, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, everything went black.

 

*******

 

Sometime later, Sherlock came too in the cell, again with John looking down at him. Truth be told, it wasn’t a horrible way to wake up, throbbing headache aside.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked when he finally managed to sit up. He didn’t have the energy to even stand up, opting instead to crawl over to the mattress. Evidently John was in very much the same condition, and slumped down next to him.

“Head’s smarting a bit, but I think I’m fine. You?” John replied, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and staring into his eyes, looking for… something.

“Smarting is one way to put it.” Sherlock huffed. “I feel like my head’s been cracked open. The room seems to have settled, so I guess that’s something.”

“It’s a bit dark in here to check your dilation, but here, follow my finger.” And John moved his index finger back and forth in front of Sherlock’s face. “Good, now squeeze both my hands as hard as you can.”

“Shouldn’t I do this to you, you’ve been knocked out as well?”

“Well yeah, it’s my turn next. Now squeeze.” John ordered.

Sherlock complied, and when John gave him the ‘ok’, he quickly made John track his movements, and assessed his strength. John didn’t squeeze Sherlock’s hands nearly as hard as he wished, something told him John intentionally held back, not wanting ‘to hurt him’, but it was even. And John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s finger with no problems, so Sherlock was satisfied.

“At least we only came out of it with matching bumps.” John winced, touching the sizable lump on his temple.

“How are you so calm right now? How are you not angry?” Sherlock had to keep himself from shouting. “You’re being held prisoner, you were just tied to a chair, you were knocked out, and I’m guessing not for the first time.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong, Sherlock, I want to tear those bastards limb from limb for what they’re doing.”

John’s light tone slipped way. “They hit you, they hurt you. I don’t really care what Moriarty does to me. I’ve lasted two months here, I can withstand anything he tries. But you… I’m not going to let him touch you again!” He growled.

Unable to think of anything to say, Sherlock took hold of John’s face, and kissed him deeply. Or as deeply as one could when both people had splitting headaches, and there were facial wounds to mind.

“You’re not going to have to withstand anything else.” Sherlock murmured when he finally pulled way. “I will get us out of here. I promise I’m going to get you out.”

“It’s not much, but I guess I should probably tell you about this.” John said, turning away and reaching down the side of the mattress nearest the wall. When he turned back, he held a metal knife and fork in his hand. Clearly just normal utensils, they actually looked to be good quality.

Sherlock looked from John, to the cutlery, and back to John, waiting for an explanation. John then told him about how normally he was provided cold, stale, ‘shit’ food, but on occasion, he would get a decent hot meal. Clearly another method to keep John unbalanced, Sherlock figured. Treat him well one day, offering  him a chance to get clean, and a filling dinner, only to torture him the next.

“The first time it happened I was so shocked that I ate it all without noticing the utensils. The second time I saw them, but it wasn’t until I shoved the tray back through the door, that I realized they had given me potential weapons.” John looked a bit sheepish.

“And the next time?” Sherlock prompted.

“Yeah, well after it happened a second time, I started planning. When a real meal came through about two weeks later, I grabbed them and hid them in the mattress. Then I yell something about not getting anything, and did they expect me to eat it with my hands.”

“Risky.”

“I know, but I was pretty sure Moriarty wasn’t around, and the other guy doesn’t seem to have a lot going on upstairs. He slid another set through. I returned those with the tray when I was done, and that was that. I don’t think they know about this pair, since they’re still here.” John beamed.

“Sometimes John, you’re an absolute genius.” Sherlock grinned back. “So what was your plan?”

“Haven’t really figured that out yet.” John shrugged. “Figured I’d wait until the guard was distracted or something, and… get stabbing.” He smirked.

“Get stabbing? I take back my ‘you’re an absolute genius’” Sherlock smiled. “Together we’ll think of something.”

“Tomorrow, well think tomorrow. Right now, I think you ought to get some sleep. Drugged and knocked unconscious all on one day, you need some rest.” John said, pulling Sherlock to lie down. “And based on the dark circles and bags under your eyes, I  _deduce_ you haven’t had a good sleep in a while.” He teased.

“Two months.” Sherlock mumbled. “What about you? Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“We both took pretty hard knocks on the head, it’s probably best we don’t sleep at the same time tonight. Comas and all that. I’ll just lay here and wake you in a bit, then you can monitor while I sleep.”

“I have to admit, this isn’t exactly how I pictured falling asleep in each other’s arms for the first time.” Sherlock yawned, settling his head under John’s chin, his cheek against John’s chest.

“But this isn’t the first time.” John whispered. “Remember that trip to Paris, and we had to share a bed?”

“John, it was a school trip, everyone was doubled up. And we were twelve.” Sherlock hoped his frown was evident in his voice, but in truth it just sounded sleepy.

John laughed, slowly running a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “We were asleep, you went all octopus, it counts.”

“Fine.” Sherlock hummed, and reveling in the feel of John’s fingers in his hair, allowed sleep pull to him under.

 

*******

 

The following morning it was Sherlock’s turn to wake John, having switched watch duty in the middle of the night. He almost hated to do it, John looked so peaceful, and at least in sleep he could escape this prison, but the food trays were pushed through the door, and John needed to eat. They ate quietly and quickly. It was only then that Sherlock realized they hadn’t been given anything to eat the day before, and he quite hungry. Funny how having John back, even in such circumstances, seemed to bring back Sherlock’s appetite just a bit.

Once they had finished eating, and the trays were returned, the guard, apparently named Seb, escorted them individually to the bathroom. As he walked down the short hallway and into the dingy bathroom, Sherlock observed everything, saving it all for later; he might be able to swipe something that they could use to escape. There wasn’t much in the bathroom; perhaps he could throw the mouthwash into Seb’s eyes? He’d have to talk it over with John.

After John was returned to their cell, they were left alone for the rest of the day. There wasn’t even a single sound coming from the other side of the door, and if Sherlock didn’t know better, he’d say they really were alone, but he knew better. Moriarty was probably in school, keeping up appearances, but Seb, Seb was out there.

The concrete walls and metal doors were thick, but Sherlock still kept his voice low as he and John began to plan. They cataloged everything they had at their disposal, and everything they might be able to nick. John wanted to try and keep one of the trays, but they could hardly pull the ‘you didn’t give me one’ trick again, and the tray not being returned would definitely be noticed.

One more trip to the bathroom, and a short nap later, and the day was gone. It was eight o’clock – according to John’s  _still_ functioning watch – when the door to their cell swung open .

“Fun time again!” Moriarty sang, bouncing on the balls of his feet, Seb standing behind him.

John was called first, but before Seb could tie him up, Sherlock stood between them, giving Moriarty a smirk before turning his back to their captors, and made a show of pulling John into a deep, messy kiss, making sure to add some rather audible moans.

“Oh enough now, I may vomit.” Moriarty sneered.

“Please don’t struggle.” Sherlock whispered so only John would hear, unable to bare the sight of him hurt any more than he already was. He then stepped away, shooting Moriarty another glare, and watched John be marched away.

Seb returned shortly, and Sherlock soon found himself strapped into a chair once again, forced to listen Moriarty brag about his crimes.

“Don’t you see, Sherly, don’t you see?” Moriarty giggled. “If this is what I’ve done alone, just imagine everything we could do together. Together we can be unstoppable?!”

Sherlock stared defiantly forward, refusing to give the maniac anything, refusing to say a word. If he remained neutral, he couldn’t provoke Moriarty, he could end this.

“You don’t have to rely on the _ordinary_ people anymore!” Moriarty said, eyes frantic, grin deranged.

Still Sherlock said nothing, reacted to nothing. Unfortunately it appeared he over estimated Moriarty’s sanity, and his silence only infuriated him. Every time he was ignored, Moriarty signaled Seb, and Sherlock had to watch John be hit, before being struck himself.

“I don’t care what you’ve done!” Sherlock finally cried when he saw John’s split lip reopen under Seb’s hand, unable to see John hurt because of him. “I don’t care what we could do together, I’m not joining you. I’ll never join you.”

“You don’t care? Really? No interest at all? Don’t you want to know  _why_ I’ve done it all?” Breathed Moriarty, mere inches from Sherlock.

“Because you’re insane. Insanity doesn’t need a reason.” Sherlock growled.

“Because they got in my WAY!” Moriarty’s yelled, leaving Sherlock’s ears ringing.

“Carl got in your way? He was a kid. You were a kid.” John called. Sherlock cringed, and stared past Moriarty, into John’s yes, silently begging him to not draw attention to himself.

“Oh Johnny boy, you’re never too young for a murder.” Moriarty grinned, raising his hand to smack John himself. “Besides, Carl deserved it.”

“Oh let me guess, he made fun of you. Did he bully you?” Sherlock said coolly, trying to get Moriarty’s attention back on him and away from John.

“He laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing. I  _ended_ him.” Moriarty hissed. “Just like I can end both you and your precious pet. So I would hold my tongue if I were you.”

“And what about Maureen Nelson? Jacob Wilson? What did they do? Eat the last scone? Forget to hold the door open for you?” Sherlock asked, unable to stop the sneer on his face.

“Oh Jacob was just an inconvenience. Always there across the street, seen me coming and going, he was a liability. Plus with the initials J.W., even looked like a bit like our John. How could I resist?” Moriarty sighed as if lost in a pleasant daydream.

“As for Maureen, oh she was fun. The roommate didn’t  _really_ do it, did you managed to catch that much?” Taunted Moriarty. “But she deserved to get the blame.”

“Need I ask why?” Sherlock sighed.

“Not really, no. But I’m so glad you did.” Moriarty preened. “You see, the late Ms. Nelson had a horrid little dog, and an even more horrid little flatmate. Wouldn’t you agree, Seb?”

Getting only a shrug from his lacky, Moriarty continued. “Darling Seb used to  _romance_ the flatmate, and every time he returned from a  _visit_ , he reeked of dog. Even worse, he was covered in its hair, made my allergies just awful.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You killed a woman because you were allergic to her dog? You framed an innocent woman because she what, took your sidekick away? You really are insane.”

“You’re only getting that now?” Moriarty giggled. “But that wasn’t the final straw. No, that little mangey shit peed on my leg. Suit was utterly ruined. Westwood too!” He gasped, almost as if expecting Sherlock to be as horrified as he was.

“And a ruined suit is worth destroying two lives.” Came John’s voice again, brimming with disgust.

“Well yes.” Huffed Moriarty, glancing back at John.

“Now I’ve given you a peek of what I can do, Sherlock Holmes, just a tiny glimpse. And I know you like it, you enjoy it.” Moriarty purred, hands bracketing Sherlock’s head, leaning in close. “I would be so very good to you, Sherlock, we could be so good to each other.”

“I. Want. Nothing. To do. With. You.” Sherlock snarled through grit teeth.

“You say that now, my dear, but you don’t want me as your enemy.” Whispered Moriarty.

“Far too late for that.” And Sherlock spat in Moriarty’s face. A bit crass yes, but Moriarty didn’t deserve his respect, and it certainly got the point across.

Moriarty grinned, pulling out a handkerchief “Oh don’t you count me out, I’ll get to you yet.” He then spun around, and to Sherlock’s horror, delivered a sharp kick to John’s gut, before gliding out the door.

“Oh, and Seb? I don’t think they’ve earned dinner tonight.” He called right as the door shut.

 

*******

 

They had barely made it in to their cell, before Sherlock was lifting up John’s shirt to examine his abdomen. Clear as day, as if painted on, was Moriarty’s red and angry looking shoe print. Even worse were the other bruises, all in various states of healing. While he knew they were there, the visual conformation of them made Sherlock sick; he wouldn’t have been able to eat ‘dinner’ even if it had been offered.

 

That evening, after profuse apologies, and comforting on the part of both, Sherlock and John settled down for the night, nose to nose, arms carefully draped over each other’s bodies. John succumbed  to sleep quickly, but sleep refused to take Sherlock. He simply spent the hours listening to John breathe, watching over him as he slept, feeling as John’s chest moved against his, his lungs expanding and relaxing with each breath.

There was nothing Sherlock wouldn’t do for the boy laying asleep in his arms, nothing Sherlock wouldn’t give or sacrifice. John Watson was the most important thing in Sherlock’s world, and he was going to ensure John escaped. John Watson was getting out, he was going to be safe, even if it was the very last thing Sherlock ever did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, my "oh so subtle" references and clues all come together. And who doesn't love the concept of "get stabbing"? 
> 
> Next up, Moriarty gets worse, but John and Sherlock get _better_ ~~(and I think the fic finally earns the 'M' rating)~~
> 
> Again, comments and corrections are much appreciated.


	11. Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting desperate, Moriarty tries some different tactics, and Sherlock and John take some important steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think it's starting to earn it's 'M' rating. Or maybe I'm just being careful.

Sherlock didn’t think it possible, but the days that followed were even worse. No longer appealing to Sherlock’s need for a challenge, Moriarty targeted his carefully hidden, but ever present emotions. Shifting his focus to John, Moriarty taunted Sherlock with John’s long history with girls, with his past relationships.

“Don't you see, Sherlock, don't you see? You're not what he wants.” Moriarty hissed. “He will never want you, not really.”

John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. “Don’t listen! Don’t listen to him! It’s only ev…mmmm” His words lost as Seb shoved some sort of rag into his mouth, covering it with duct tape, gagging him.

“Ahh, finally got rid of that annoying buzzing” Moriarty sighed. “And that’s what he is, an insect just buzzing around. You’re the flavor of the week, something he can try once and be done with. And he will be done with you eventually, he’ll grow tired of you.  Years from now he can laugh and tell his little wife of his experimental phase where he tried it on with a bloke. And then where will you be?”

Sherlock looked past Moriarty, into John’s imploring eyes, and the truth was written plain as day.  

“I’m still here.” Sherlock said, looking back at Moriarty.

“What?”

“I’m still here. John’s various girlfriends have come and gone, but I’m still here. He still wants me.” Sherlock said, praying he gave none of his true doubts away.

“But it’s different now, isn’t it? Friendship versus… _this._ ” Moriarty sneered

“It’s been months and he still wants me; now, more than ever.” Sherlock said defiantly.

“Well you know what they say about absence and the heart; he’s romanticized you. It’ll never last Sherlock, _you_ could never make it work!” Moriarty snapped. “He’ll end it!”

The truth was Sherlock was completely lost the second John kissed him back that night in the park. John was in complete control of the relationship, Sherlock knew it, Moriarty certainly knew it; there was no point in hiding it, no point in not acknowledging it.

“Then he’ll end it.” Sherlock breathed. “But I want every day with him that he’ll give me.” He added, looking directly into John’s eyes.

 

It was the same thing every day, Moriarty taunted, Sherlock refused to listen, and John and Sherlock got hit.

“He’s getting desperate.” Sherlock said one evening in their cell.

“I’ve noticed.” John frowned, examining the fresh cut above Sherlock’s eye.

“It makes him dangerous.”

John scoffed. “Yeah, because he wasn’t dangerous before.”

“You know what I mean. He’s not getting what he wants. I’m not joining him, you’re not leaving me. We’re not giving him what he wants.” Sherlock huffed, batting away John’s hand, and tried to inspect the developing bruises around John’s neck.

“And we’re not going to.” John said, gently lowering Sherlock’s hands from his neck, holding them in his. “If he’s desperate, he might slip up.” He adds with a small smile.

“He never really expected us too.” Sherlock mumbled, not meeting John’s eye.

“What do you mean?” Asked John.

“If Moriarty really thought he could make me join him, make you leave me, why would he keep us in the same cell?”

“There’s probably not much room down here. He might not have had any other option.” John suggested.

“He knew what would happen by keeping us together.” Sherlock said quietly. Sherlock had suspected it from the beginning, but he had hoped he was wrong. God did he want to be wrong. “It’ll make it worse when he finally takes you away from me. That’s what’s going to break me. He knows he’s running out of time, he’s going to… He’s going to…”

Sherlock couldn’t bring him to finish his sentence, but John seemed to understand, seemed to know. Wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s back, John reached up to pull Sherlock’s head down to his shoulder, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

“We won’t let him.” John whispered. “I only just got you, and I’m not giving you up. I’m not going anywhere.” He didn’t sound convinced.

 

*******

 

They didn’t have to wait long for Sherlock’s nightmares to become a reality. After leaving them alone for a full day, Moriarty came for a ‘visit’ the next. Apparently seeing John suffer wasn’t cutting it anymore, and making Sherlock watch the light leave John’s eyes, was the only option he had left.

“Though given how dull they are normally, who’d know the difference?” Moriarty snickered.

“I’ll stay! I’ll stay with you if you let John go!”

“Sherlock, don’t!” John cried, struggling against Seb’s hold on him.

Sherlock ignored John, and focused on Moriarty. “Let John go and I’ll join you.” He knew it wasn’t going to work, but he was panicked.

Moriarty just shook his head. “Oh my dear, such a noble sacrifice. But you know Johnny Boy was never getting out of this alive. He knows what I’ve done, he’ll go running to the police.” He pouted, his words dripping with false pity.

“Then we’ll leave before he gets the chance. Sedate him again and just leave the doors open. We’ll be gone by the time he wakes up.” Sherlock pled, he was desperate, his eyes began to prickle.

“I could do that… But I don’t want to.” Moriarty smirked. “Besides I need you to _want_ to stay, I need you to see _reason_ , I need you to have no _hope_ left. John free, John alive, that has ‘hope’ written all over it.”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This wasn’t happening, he needed more time. He looked up, his eyes meeting John’s over Moriarty’s shoulder, and he lost it; the tears he fought so hard against began to fall.

“I’ll give you the night to say your goodbyes” Moriarty said, standing up. “I told you I’d break you, I told you I’d destroy you. I always keep my promises, Sherlock.” He called over his shoulder as he strolled out of the room, followed silently by Seb.       

 

*******

 

Sherlock gave himself a half hour to breakdown, a half hour to lose control of himself and sob in John’s arms. If the growing damp patch on his shoulder was any indication, John was crying too as he clung desperately to Sherlock.

Eventually the tears ran dry. “I knew this was going to happen.” Sherlock sniffled, pulling away from John. “I just needed more time. I could do this, I could get us out of here if we had more time!”

"We have today, we have tonight.” John’s smile was small and tight. “We already have a preliminary plan, we just need to put it all together. If anyone can do this in a night, it’s you!”

“You have so much faith in me, John. How?” Sherlock asked, baffled. He could live a thousand years, and still never understand John’s faith in him. _I could live a thousand years, and still not deserve it_ , Sherlock thought.   

“You’ve never given me reason not to.” John said quietly. “So don’t give me one now.” He added with a half-hearted laugh.

 

They spent the next couple of hours putting the finishing touches on ‘the plan’, practicing how they would attack. It was pathetic to say the least, hardly any better than John’s original ‘get stabbing’ approach, but they were down to the wire, it was go for broke, or just accept fate, and Sherlock Holmes never accepted anything as juvenile as fate.

“It’s going to work.” Sherlock said, collapsing next to John on the mattress; more to reassure himself than anything else.

“Yeah.” John nodded. “Yeah it will.” He sounded unconvinced.

“It will.” Said Sherlock firmly, cupping John’s cheeks, his fingers moving back to comb through the tangle of John’s shaggy blond hair. John had to believe it would work, his confidence and faith in Sherlock was the only thing keeping Sherlock going. If this plan was going to work, if John was to be safe, they couldn’t go into it expecting failure.

John didn’t respond, or rather, he didn’t respond with words. Instead of saying anything, John’s hands came up to cover Sherlock’s, and leaning forward, he kissed Sherlock with such force that he ended up flat on his back, John’s body covering his. Lips, tongue, and jaw all working together, John’s mouth thoroughly claimed Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s brain shut off, his world narrowed just to the feeling of John’s desperate mouth working his, John’s body pressing and pinning his down. He couldn’t breathe, he didn’t want to breathe. He wanted this to never stop; he wanted more, he wanted…

“John!” Sherlock gasped when John tore his lips from Sherlock’s and started sucking on Sherlock’s neck; moaned as John attacked his neck with licks and bites. John only kissed him even harder, his hands moving down Sherlock’s torso, his mouth moving along Sherlock’s throat and along his jaw back to his lips.

“John…” Sherlock groaned, his hips rolling of their own accord. “Oh god… nnnahh… John… What are we… ahh! What are we doing?” He panted, his lips already starting to feel swollen.

“Mmmm,” John hummed, “if you can’t tell, then I’m obviously not doing it right.” He mumbled, continuing to pepper Sherlock’s face, neck, and mouth with kisses.

“Mmmmm, right… uuuhh… it’s right… aaaah… so right.” Sherlock breathed, giving up control to John, following his lead. It was intoxicating.

Only when John started to move down Sherlock’s body, kissing his chest through his t-shirt, his hands sliding up under the hem, did Sherlock’s senses partially returned.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Sherlock gulped, trying to catch his breath, pulling John back up to him. “Are you sure we should be doing this? Here, now, is this a good idea?” He asked, staring up at John, his thumbs running carefully along John’s jaw.

“I don’t know.” John breathed, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I don’t know, but I want too. I just want… you. Only you… It’s only ever been you.” And then they were kissing again, lips parting, tongues sliding into each other’s mouths, tasting, exploring, learning everything about the other.

Sherlock knew they were in no real condition, and nowhere in the right state of mind, but John slid a knee between his legs, and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself; their bodies moved together, worked together, Sherlock never wanted anything more. Letting out a whimper, Sherlock ground down against John’s thigh, and rocking himself up to meet John’s hips, he found John to be in much the same desperate state.

“I need… ahhh… oh… oh GOD… I need you… Oh John!... John I need you!!” Sherlock cried, his pace speeding up to match John’s.

“Close… need you closer… touch you.” Murmured John against Sherlock’s lips, his hand moving down to grasp Sherlock’s thigh, hooking Sherlock’s leg over his hip. “I just… feel you closer.”

“God yes!” Sherlock moaned.

“At least once… I need you close tonight… at least this once.” John was babbling, kissing Sherlock the entire time.

“Every night… uuuhhh… you can have me… nnnaahhh… every night.” Gasped Sherlock.

And then they were lost; partially clothed, t-shirts abandoned, grinding against each other, moaning and panting in each other’s mouths. He didn’t know how it happened, but Sherlock found their positions reversed, mouth still thoroughly claimed, he was straddling John, John’s hands on his hips, dipping into the waistband of his jeans, guiding him down as John thrust up against him. Sherlock didn’t care if they were overheard, he just let go and let the overpowering _‘YES GOD YES! GOD MORE!’_ , wash over him. Knowing John had been the cause of such unprecedented… bliss, and seeing John’s pupils blown wide, breathing heavily, knowing he had caused such a state in John, almost sent Sherlock tumbling over the edge again.

 

"Sherlock… I need you to know…” John said once they’d finally come down.

“What?” Sherlock asked, sliding down to lie facing John.

John paused to clutch Sherlock’s hands, bringing them against his chest; Sherlock could feel John’s heart beating steady. “I need you to know how important you are to me, how you’ve made my life better. If I don’t make it, I need you to know how much you mean to me.”

“Don’t talk like that, don’t even think like that.” Sherlock choked. “Our plan _will_ work. We are both getting out of here alive.” Or at the very least, John was getting out alive, Sherlock swore to himself.

“It will,” John nodded, “but if something goes wrong, I want you to know that I lo…”

“NO!” Yelped Sherlock; stopping John with a kiss. “Don’t say it like this, not now.”

“Why?” John asked against Sherlock’s lips.

“You’re under duress, you’re scared.” Sherlock closed his eyes, unable to look at John as he spoke. “Once you say it, you can’t take it back.”

“I won’t want to take it back.” John whispered. Sherlock could feel him rubbing his nose along his cheek.

“But you can only say it for the first time, once.” Sherlock said, finally opening his eyes. “I don’t want the first time I hear you say it to be here. It’ll… It’ll taint it. Say it when we’re free, when we’re safe.”

“Ok.” John said with a kiss, running one hand through Sherlock’s hair, the other along his back. “Alright.”

“Good.”

“But I do.” John breathed.

Sherlock sniffled, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. “I know… I do too.” He whispered.

 

They fell silent after that, wrapped in each other’s arms. John eventually fell asleep, but Sherlock fought to stay awake. He watched John’s even breathing, his chest rising and falling; he needed to feel John alive and solid, under his finger tips.

Sherlock must have drifted off, because one moment he was savoring the feel of John’s warm breath against his chest, and the next, he was being jolted awake.

From above, the sound of a great commotion; a door crashing open, multiple footsteps hurrying through, people talking, yelling something Sherlock couldn’t make out. Someone –or someones – new, had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!
> 
> Next time, shit gets serious.
> 
> If I've said it once, I've said it ten times, comments and corrections are a girl's best friend (or at least this girl's)


	12. Don't Leave Me Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock fight to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry

The footsteps above them were heavy, the voices muffled but strong, they didn’t belong to Moriarty or Seb – Sherlock knew what they sounded like – this was someone else, well multiple someone eleses, there had to be at least ten of them. This could be just the distraction he and John needed.

 

Sherlock had barely managed to get to his feet, pulling John up next to him, when Seb burst through the door, gun poised, his entire body tense.

“Keep quiet.” He hissed, his gun trained on Sherlock. “I don’t want to hear a single sound.”

 John shifted next to him, and Sherlock felt him press something cool against his palm, before sliding it into the waistband of his jeans.

“Cops won’t know we’re down here.” Seb muttered, looking away and up towards the ladder and trap door leading to what Sherlock assumed was the rest of the building.

With their captor distracted, Sherlock met John’s eye, giving his hand a firm squeeze, and nodded his head. It was now or never. John charged Seb, managing to jam the fork into his neck, while Sherlock simultaneously darted forward, plunging the knife as deep into Seb’s thigh as possible.

Letting out a scream Sherlock was sure was enough to alert those upstairs, Seb wheeled around, ripping the fork from his neck, giving Sherlock and John enough time to act. Sherlock slipped behind Seb, and wrapping his arms around his thick neck, started choking him. With Seb's attention focused on freeing himself from Sherlock’s hold, John went for the gun, attempting to wrestle it from the man’s grip.

As John and Seb struggled, the butt of the gun flew backwards, and Sherlock’s ribs exploded in pain; but even as the air was knocked out of his lungs, he still hung on. His arms tightened around Seb’s neck; squeezing as hard as he could, not hard enough to kill him, just enough to cut off the oxygen to his brain long enough to render him unconscious – Sherlock knew his strength. He could feel Seb’s muscles tensing, his windpipe constricting. Any moment, Seb would be out; any second and John would be free. Seb started to slow, his movements turned sluggish. Just… a little… more.

 

The series of events that followed, occurred so fast, Sherlock didn’t even have time to properly process them. Seb’s legs gave out – thanks to John bringing down a sharp blow to Seb’s shin – the gun fired, Seb collapsed on the ground, unconscious, and John stumbled backwards, letting out an almost inaudible cry.

Sherlock kicked the gun through the door as a precaution. “We did it!” he beamed, lifting his head to finally look at John, and the world came to a screeching halt. John stood a few paces away, face slack in shock; clutching his left shoulder, a wet, red stain soaking through his ratty t-shirt. “Sherlock.” He whimpered, and crumpled to the ground.

“John.” Sherlock breathed, rushing to John side and dropping to his knees. “HELP!” He shouted, praying whoever was upstairs heard the gun shot, and could hear him.

“Sherlock.” John stuttered again, reaching out a trembling, blood soaked hand.

“I’m here, I’m right here.” Sherlock chocked, clutching John’s hand in his. “John, look at me! Keep your eyes fixed on me, I’m right here!”

John winced as Sherlock ripped open the ruined shirt and applied pressure to the wound. “I’m fine.” His voice was strained.

“Of course you are.” John’s eyes fluttered shut. “HELP!!! SOMEBODY HELP!!!!” Sherlock screamed again, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. “Keep your eyes open. Please, John, please stay awake. I need you awake. I need… I need you. John, please. I love you. I love you, John. Please, I love you.” Sherlock begged, pulling John half into his lap, holding him tight, his hand still over where the bullet tore through John. Bullet. John. John shot. Gunshot wound. Gunshot wound in John. This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening.

“Sherrr.” John mumbled, his eyelids fighting to open.

“Shhhh, Shhh. You’re going to be alright. Everything’s going to be alright.” Hummed Sherlock. Tears ran down his face as he began to rock slowly, planting kisses on John’s damp crown.

John went limp in Sherlock’s arms, his eyes no longer fought to open, his breathing became shallower.

“NO! John, wake up! Please wake up!... HELP! WE’RE DOWN HERE! ANYBODY! HELP! HELP US!” Sherlock’s voice was already cracking, his weakened state, and the dehydration taking their toll.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m so sorry. I love you. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It can’t end like this. I love you. Please, I love you. Please don’t leave me.  I can’t be alone. Don’t leave me alone. I need you. Don’t go. I love you. Please don’t go. I love… I love…” He sobbed, clinging to John even harder.

 

Sherlock continued to shout for help, he continued to apologize, the tears continued to fall, and John remained unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I was sorry! 
> 
> I know this is a short chapter, and I'm debating whether to post the next one (which picks up right where this one ended) tomorrow instead of waiting until Sunday. But cliffhangers are so fun! 
> 
> So... comments? Corrections? :D


	13. Bruised, Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help arrives, but is it in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really tried to get this chapter out yesturday, but I got distracted by Doctor Who, and started outlining another fic. By the time I finished editing, it was really late.

_“Sherlock.”_

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t right at all. There was so much blood, there was blood everywhere. John wasn’t that big, how could there be so much blood? And he was pale; oh god, he was so pale. John shouldn’t be pale, Sherlock was the pale one; John was always outside, his skin was always meant to be sun kissed.

" _Sherlock.”_

John was still, he was too still, he was limp. Oh god! Oh god, he was gone! Sherlock lost him. Sherlock failed him. There was still so much left for John to do, for him to experience, for them to experience. The only person Sherlock ever truly loved, the only person he would ever love, could ever love, and he failed him.

John was gone, John was gone and Sherlock couldn’t go on, he had nothing left. Oh god. Oh god. Please, god. John.

_“Sherlock!”_

He knew that voice, how did he know that voice? There were hands on him, pulling at him. Whose hands were grabbing him? They were strong, but gentle. Lestrade? What was she doing there?

Suddenly the world came flooding back, sounds, sights, smells, it all came back at once.

“Sherlock, you have to let go.” Lestrade said gently, prying Sherlock’s arms from around John. “The paramedics need to get to him.”

“I can’t.” Sherlock gasped, voice thick, trying to cling tighter. “I can’t leave him. Don’t take him away, don’t take him away from me. I need him. I need him!” He sobbed.

“He’s still alive, Sherlock. John’s alive, but he needs medical attention immediately. You have to let go.”

 

*******

 

Sherlock didn’t remember what happened next; one minute Lestrade had ripped him away while paramedics swarmed over a motionless John, and the next he was in hospital, a sea of unknown faces examining and questioning him.

It wasn’t long after he arrived, that familiar footfalls were heard on the A&E’s linoleum floor.

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We were told Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were brought here… Oh Katherine! Where are they? Where’s my Sherlock?”

“Lydia… Lydia, calm down, he’s over here.”

“Oh Sherlock! Oh my baby! Oh my baby boy!” The privacy curtain around Sherlock’s cubicle flew open, revealing an anxious, tearful Mrs. Holmes; an equally anxious Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson stood behind her. Thankfully she waited until the nurse finished tending to the cut above his eye, before enveloping Sherlock in her arms.

There were questions, endless questions, but Sherlock heard none of them. He just nodded along, making the occasional noise as the A&E nurses and doctors answered Mrs. Holmes’ litany of questions. Sherlock’s ribs were bruised but not fractured; the cuts and abrasions, while extensive, would heal easily with no lasting damage. They did insist on keeping Sherlock overnight for monitoring, and hooked him up to IV fluids to combat electrolyte imbalances and malnutrition that was far worse than a week and a half in captivity should cause.

Sherlock honestly couldn’t care less about his injuries, how he was ‘ _lucky because things could have been much worse._ ’ He could only think of John, his worry and fear consumed him. John had been rushed into surgery as soon as his ambulance arrived at the hospital, and they’d been given no update since.

 

The wait for news was agony. Sherlock was confined to a wheelchair, the only way the hospital would allow him in the waiting room and not a hospital bed. His parents sat with him in silence, his mother never letting go of his hand. Mr. Watson paced. The police tried to get a statement from him, but aside from saying it was James Moriarty, Sherlock said nothing, unable to concentrate on anything other than John.

After what felt like an eternity, a surgeon finally appeared and called for John’s father. Sherlock of course wheeled himself up next to Mr. Watson, or rather asked his father to push him.

“John should be fine, his surgery went perfectly. The bullet missed everything major, going straight through.” The surgeon addressed Mr. Watson.

“Oh thank god.” Mr. Watson sighed; there were tears in his eyes. Crap father or not, at least it looked like he genuinely cared about John.

“There is a lot of damage to the left shoulder.” The surgeon continued. “The muscles are torn, and the scapula was shattered. We had to use metal plates to realign and hold the bone in place. He’ll need physical therapy.”

“But he’s alright?” Sherlock asked, his voice wavering, afraid to hope.  

“Well he is severely malnourished, which only exacerbated the effects of the blood loss, but we have every reason to believe John will make a full recovery.”

Relief washed over him, Sherlock felt like he could finally breathe again. “When can I see him? I want to see him.”

“He’s in the recovery room now, we’re monitoring to make sure his vitals remain stable, and then he’ll be transferred to a permanent bed in about an hour. You can visit him once he’s in his room.” The surgeon said, before turning to John’s father. “Mr. Watson, if you’d come with me, I can take you to John now.”

“Wait! He can go? Why can’t I see him now?” Sherlock cried, trying to wheel himself after the surgeon and Mr. Watson.

“I’m sorry, but there can only be one visitor in the recovery room at a time, immediate family only. You’ll have to wait.”

Sherlock was about to protest when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. “It’s alright sweetie, we’ll see him when he’s transferred.” His mother said soothingly. “He’s safe. John’s safe, he’s going to be alright. And I’m sure they’ll let us wait somewhere a little closer until we can see him.”

“I want to room with him. Wherever he’s transferred, I want to share a room with him. I have to stay, and I want to stay with him.” Sherlock demanded, his voice still less commanding than he had hoped.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” The surgeon smiled, and led Mr. Watson off towards the recovery room.

Left alone with his parents, Sherlock didn’t have to wait long before an orderly came to escort them to decent sized room not too far from the ICU. A curtain divided the room in two, and there was already one bed waiting on one side of the room, the other half was empty, presumably John’s bed would fill that space.

While not as terrifying as the wait to find out if John made it through surgery, the wait for him to be moved from recovery, to finally see him again, was painful. Only his father actively forcing him onto the bed, prevented Sherlock from sneaking into the recovery room himself; there were spare scrubs everywhere, he could have easily done it.

 

*******

 

“Do you think he’d be ready to give a statement now?” Came DI Lestrade’s voice from outside the door.

“Can it wait? He’s been through so much. Other than to ask about John, he’s barely spoken. Honestly, I don’t think he’ll be ready to think about, or say anything until he sees John.” Mrs. Holmes said, having stepped out in the hall to speak to the DI.

“No, no, I get it. We can do it tomorrow. Sometimes I forget that he’s just a kid, they’re both just kids.” Lestrade laughed half-heartedly.

“Oh you don’t have to remind me.” Mrs. Holmes chuckled. “Just don’t let Sherlock hear you say that.”

“My lips are sealed… Have you guys heard anything new about John? I’m assuming they’re bringing him back here.”

“Yeah, the surgery when well, and he’s in the recovery room now. Sherlock wanted to be there with him, but the staff said no. Richard went over there a bit ago to eavesdrop; he’s still out of it, but stable. So they should be bringing him here any minute now.”

“I’ll forget I heard that bit about eavesdropping.”

Sherlock tuned out after that, thinking instead about what he was going to say to John, how he was going to apologize, and the sound of the women’s conversation soon faded away.

 

It was the sound of wheels coming down the corridor that jolted Sherlock from his thoughts. There was a hospital bed headed towards the room. It was John, after what felt like an eternity, Sherlock was finally getting to see John.

Not thirty seconds later, the door opened and a sleeping John was wheeled into the room by two orderlies and a nurse; Mr. Watson brought up the rear.

“Why is he still not awake? What’s wrong? Shouldn’t he be awake by now?” Asked Sherlock, who was on his feet and by John’s side in a matter of seconds; his eyes locked on John’s face.

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “You must be Sherlock.” She sighed, the corner of her mouth quirking into a small smile. “Everything is fine. The combination of blood loss and malnutrition really took their toll on him, but his vitals are stable and he woke briefly in the recovery room. He mumbled your name actually, before slipping back to sleep.”

Sherlock had to bite his cheek to keep from grinning. It’d be ‘a bit not good’ to smile at a time like this, but John said his name; John was thinking about him, wanted him. “But he’s going to be okay?” He said quietly.

“There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. The antibiotics should take care of any possible infections, and his pain meds will help him sleep. He should probably be out for another few hours.” She said reassuringly. “Now I’d suggest you get back in your bed and get some rest, you have a bit of healing to do yourself. How is your pain, do we need to adjust your medication?”

"I’m fine.” Sherlock winced, climbing back into his bed. “Just a bit sore, but I’m fine.” The last does of pain killers he’d been given had yet to wear off, he was fine for a couple more hours.

Once John was settled, Sherlock rechecked, and the parents debriefed again, the nurse left. Sherlock’s parents spoke in hushed tones with Mr. Watson, something about being able to breathe easier, and Sherlock laid facing John’s bed, itching to be closer but not daring to move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his sleeping best friend, finally taking John in in his entirety. They had cleaned him up, the blood, dirt, and grime of captivity was gone. He was topless too, a large bandage across his chest and over his left shoulder; smaller bandages covering his various other cuts and bruises. Even like this, pale, bruised, and in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs and monitors, Sherlock thought he was beautiful. John was alive, he was safe, he was going to be okay, and he was beautiful.

 

*******

 

It was late afternoon, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson had dragged a reluctant Mrs. Holmes to the canteen for something to eat, when Sherlock heard rustling coming from the bed next to him.

“Sherlock?” John sounded groggy; his voice barely above a whisper.

His name wasn’t even out of John’s mouth, before Sherlock had jumped out of his bed, threw himself into the chair next to John, and brought John’s right hand up to his lips, kissing his palm. “I’m right here, John. I’m right here.”

“Knew you’d get us out. Never doubted you for a minute.” John smiled, turning his head to look at Sherlock, sounding much more alert.

“It was all you, John. I just yelled.” Sherlock laughed back a sob, kissing John’s palm again, buoyed by John’s never ending faith in him.  “God, I was so scared I’d lost you again. Never, never do that again. How are you feeling?” He asked, gazing down at John. He brushed a tentative hand across John’s cheek, afraid of hurting him.

“Sore all over, and my shoulder is killing me, but better now.” John smiled.

Sherlock reached up to hit the call light. “Here, let me get the nurse.”

“Before they get here, I want to tell you, I lo-” But before John could finish his sentence, the nurse hurried in and began checking John. Sherlock was thankful he wasn’t the one hooked up to a heart monitor, as he was pretty sure it would have spiked, or possibly flat-lined, at that moment.

By the time the nurse had finished her examination, the parents had returned, along with the doctor who conducted his own examination, and Sherlock was made to get back in his own bed. Reassured that John and Sherlock would both make full recoveries, Mrs. Holmes immediately began to gush over John in a way only a mother could.

Mr. Watson hung back by the door, not meeting his son’s eyes, as Mrs. Holmes lavished both boys with affection, vowing to never let either of them out of her sight from that moment on. Sherlock sincerely hoped she was exaggerating, but he never could tell with his mother.

“Come on Sherlock; let’s give the Watsons a little privacy.” Mrs. Holmes finally said, guiding Sherlock, who had inexplicably found himself back sitting on the side of John’s bed, back over to his side of the room.

“We’re so relieved you’re safe, John.” Mr. Holmes smiled, pulling the privacy curtain between the two beds.

“Thanks Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Dad!” Sherlock hissed as the curtain closed, blocking John from his sight. “Why did you do that?”

Mr. Holmes kept his voice low. “Because George has been worried about John, and they deserve some time to speak to each other without us butting in.”

“We’re on the other side of a cotton sheet, it’s hardly private.” Sherlock huffed.

“Well you’re not leaving this room, and I’m not leaving you, so it’s the best we can do.” Mrs. Holmes added, giving Sherlock a stern look.

The thin cotton sheet did prove to be a surprisingly good barrier, as Sherlock could barely make out what was said, catching only snippets of the low murmurs coming from the other side of the room.

“You came… didn’t know… be here”

“… My son… worried…”

“… sure… hoped….”

“I promise… be better.”

 

“Ok, I think we’ve tortured Sherlock long enough. I can practically hear him sulking from here.” Mr. Watson said loudly, pulling the curtain open again.

“I was not sulking.” Sherlock frowned.

“Sure you weren’t.” John grinned, dark blue eyes shining. God he was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course the boys are fine, I'm not a monster!
> 
> Next chapter is the last chapter before the epilogue. The boys learn what went on when they were captured, and the start the recovery process.
> 
> Like I've said in all the previous chapters, I loves me some comments and corrections :D


	14. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to put their ordeal behind them, John and Sherlock start down the road to recovery together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be working on a presentation for work, but I wanted to get this out today!

The rest of that first day in hospital passed relatively quickly. Doctors and nurses came by to examine them, and adjust medications. Both John and Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep. And the Holmes’ and Mr. Watson chatted amongst themselves, able to catch up and relax now that their sons were safe. There were no other visitors, but something told Sherlock that the reprieve was not going to last much longer; they still needed to speak with the police, and the press was sure to catch wind of John’s rescue, if they didn’t know already.

Night soon fell, and Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson went home with promises to return the next day. Mrs. Holmes, true to her vow of never letting the boys out of her sight, camped out in a faux leather easy chair in the corner of their room. Once he was sure his mother was asleep, listening for deep and even breathing, Sherlock crawled back onto John’s bed. Stretching out along his right side, Sherlock paid extra care to avoid John’s injuries, particular his bandaged shoulder.

“Sherlock!” John whispered. “What are you doing? Your mum is right there.”

“So? She did pull the curtain ‘for our privacy’” Sherlock replied, nuzzling his nose into John’s neck.

“Oh god. I don’t know if I can look your mum in the eye ever again.”

“Please, as if she doesn’t already know. I couldn’t have made it more obvious what we are to each other if I tried. I mean, I did dedicate the past two months of my life to finding you.” Sherlock mumbled, fitting himself closer against John.

“Not the most subtle, yeah.” John chuckled. “God, I love you.”

Even in the dim lighting, which hopefully masked the blush he felt bloom across his cheeks, Sherlock could still make out John’s eyes gazing at him, a small smile on his face. “You don’t… you don’t have to feel compelled to say that.” He muttered, doubling grateful for the lack of a heart monitor on him as his heart rate sped up.

“No compulsion whatsoever.” John said resolutely. “You told me not to say it before because of where we were, but we’re safe now. We’re together and we’re safe, and I love you.” Sherlock just continued to stare. “Come on, I’m not under duress, I’m not scared, it’s not the adrenaline. I’m in love with you, Sherlock, so I’m going to say it. I, John Hamish Watson, being of sound mind and sort of sound body, declare that I am in love with you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I. Love. You.”

“John…”

“I do, Sherlock. I really do love you.”

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock said quietly, leaning down to brush his lips against John’s. “I told you before, but I didn’t know if you could…”

John cut off the rest of the sentence, pulling Sherlock down into a careful, but determined, kiss. “I heard you.” He smiled.

“I was under duress at the time, but I still meant it. I genuinely love you.”

“I know.”

They spent a few more minutes trading gentle kisses, and mumbled ‘I love yous’, before finally settling down for the night to sleep; heads turned towards each other, resting on the same pillow. As sleep pulled him under, everything he’d ever want in life tucked safely in his arms, the happiness filling him up, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel lighter. Despite the fact they were stuck in hospital, their bodies bruised and bandaged, Sherlock knew everything was finally going to be okay. Sherlock never slept better.

 

*******

 

The next day, after a disapproving nurse forced Sherlock out of John’s bed and back into his own, DI Lestrade came to see them, and finally take their statements.

Silently, Sherlock listened to John recount his attack and his time in captivity before Sherlock arrived. His stomach twisted, and his heart broke as he had to hear the torment John endured all over again. Closing his eyes, and forcing himself to breath, Sherlock had to remind himself that it was all over; John survived, he was safe, and he was back where he belonged. Mrs. Holmes held his hand tight, sniffling as Sherlock detailed his own abduction. Then, together with John, they recounted their time together at Moriarty’s mercy. Mrs. Holmes nearly burst into tears upon hearing how Moriarty had been watching Sherlock for years, planning and executing crimes just to get his attention. Lestrade just listened solemnly, taking down every detail.

“So what are you going to do about this Jim Moriarty?” Mr. Watson asked Lestrade, once John and Sherlock had finished with their statements. “You do have him right? He’ll be prosecuted?”

“Unfortunately we don’t have him in custody, but we are currently searching for him.” Lestrade said as calmly as she could manage.

“What!?! How? Why?” It was only his mother’s hands keeping him back, that prevented Sherlock from jumping from his bed.

“We believe Mr. Sebastian Moran, the man we apprehended when we found you, tipped Moriarty off when we entered the building.”

“He’s seventeen years old. How could a seventeen year old boy give you the slip? Surely you can locate him. School records, his parents?” Mrs. Holmes frowned, moving to place herself in front of Sherlock. What she was trying to protect him from, Sherlock didn’t know.

“That’s the problem, there are practically no records of James Moriarty. He was emancipated two years ago; both his parents are still in Dublin, and neither have heard from him since the emancipation. He has no other family, we checked.”

“And the school?” Mrs. Holmes prompted.

“There is no record of a James Moriarty attending. The only student to transfer in was a James Zucco, and your friend Molly Hooper confirmed he was the one who always tried to speak with you.” Lestrade explained. “Chances are he’s traveling under another false identity, and we can’t actually be sure how many he may have. But we have sent his description out to all train and bus stations, and all ports of entry and exit.”

Sherlock slumped back in his bed. They were never going to find Jim, he had a head start and he was smart. Jim was only going to be found when he wanted to be found. Sherlock felt his gut twist again, until Jim was in custody, John was never going to be entirely safe. God, he just wanted this to be over, he needed it to be over.

“So, how did you manage to find us?” John asked, breaking through the fog of worry, and bringing Sherlock back into the conversation.

“Good old fashion police work.” Lestrade laughed. Sherlock just scoffed.

Lestrade then went on to walk them through the investigation after Sherlock was taken. They knew that whoever took John must have also been responsible for Sherlock’s abduction, so they went through Sherlock’s research, some of which Sherlock had not yet shared with the Yard, to look for clues.

“We had CCTV footage of you speaking with an unidentified young man right before you disappeared.” Lestrade said. “Unfortunately, there were no good angles, so getting an ID was difficult.”

“Wiggins, you mean Billy Wiggins.” Sherlock said, sitting up.

“Yes, with some help from your father,” Lestrade nodded towards Mr. Holmes, “We were eventually able to identify Mr. Wiggins, and located him after a few days.”

“A few days? It took you a few days to find a homeless kid living in the most surveilled city in the world.” Sherlock muttered under his breath, earning himself a frown from his mother, and a poorly stifled laugh from John.

“Once we did locate Mr. Wiggins,” Lestrade continued pointedly, “and assured him he was in no trouble, he told us everything he told you, Sherlock; about possibly spotting John in Brixton, and how you ran off yelling ‘power’.”

“Power?” John frowned. “You figured out where we were based on the word power?”

“Well, it was actually Molly who asked if you could have meant power as in electricity, which made me start thinking about power grids.” Mrs. Holmes said. “So I called Katherine.”

“OH! Because if they were holding us in an abandoned building, there shouldn’t be any power on.” John grinned, looking towards Sherlock. “Brilliant!”

Sherlock beamed back.

“Exactly. Once we compiled a list of closed or abandoned property, and compared them with power usage maps, we found that just before John was taken, the electrical had been turned on in an abandoned store front, ‘The Compass Needle’, some sort of navigation store. We also checked, and the water had been re-started as well. The owner of the property said he didn’t reconnect the utilities, and gave us – and some reinforcements, thank you again Richard – permission to enter. And, well you know the rest.”

“Yeah, you got there not a moment too soon.” John laughed.

“Could have been sooner.” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh Sherlock, hush.” Mrs. Holmes said, patting his arm.

 

Much like the day before, the second day in hospital passed rather uneventfully. The doctor was still not happy with Sherlock’s electrolyte levels, and decided to keep him one more day. Sherlock suspected his father had a hand in that decision, not that he was going to complain.  At one point, Mr. Holmes had to step out to prevent a reporter from sneaking in, and was forced gave a statement on behalf of both families, asking for privacy.

Molly popped in for a quick visit after school bearing ‘get well’ gifts from the hospital shop for John and Sherlock, teddy bears dressed as a doctor and a pirate respectively. Apparently their rescue was all anyone at school was able to talk about, and she had been inundated with questions.

“I guess people figured out I helped a bit with the investigation.” She shrugged.

“Helped? You broke the case for them!” John exclaimed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Sherlock laid all the ground work, and his mum was the one who actually figured it out.” Molly blushed.

“That may be, but your idea got her on the right track. Who knows how long the police would have taken to figure it out without you; if they even could.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

Harry stopped by for a visit, and was sober on top of it, much to John’s delight. Mycroft made an appearance as well, much to Sherlock’s dismay.

 

That night, once final evening exams were complete, and Mrs. Holmes was already asleep in her chair, Sherlock once again crawled into John’s bed.

“You know you’re just going to get kicked out again.” John whispered, already sliding over to make room.

“Fine, but I’ll just stay here until they do.” Sherlock retorted, leaning forward to kiss John.

“Mmmm.” John hummed, eyes closed. “Good idea. Been wanting to do that all day.”

"Well hurry up and heal, then they can let you out of here, and we don’t have to wait until the dark of the night for a spot of privacy.” Between police, parents, siblings, and nurses, they didn’t get a moment alone together all day. It was hateful.

“Working on it.” John smiled, pulling Sherlock down to reclaim his mouth.

After quite a bit of  _enthusiastic_ kissing, not quite as enthusiastic as Sherlock may have wished, but he wasn’t going to risk hurting John, they eventually settled down to just lay snuggled up against each other, John resting his head against Sherlock’s chest.

“You know Moriarty’s still out there.” Sherlock mumbled into John’s hair. “He’s not going to just let us go. He’s going to come back eventually.”

“Yeah, but now he knows that we’re not that easily separated. And when he does show his face again, we’ll be ready, together. You and me against the rest of the world, right?” John’s said reassuringly. Even through the cotton of his t-shirt, Sherlock could feel John’s breath ghosting over his chest.

_Together_ , Sherlock shivered. “Right, you and me.” And for the second night in a row, Sherlock drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.

 

*******

 

Sherlock’s was released from hospital the next day; his injuries were healing, his blood test came back normal, and his electrolytes were back to an acceptable level. John had to stay an additional four just to make sure there was no infection, all his vitals remained stable, and his nutrients were back in balance. Sherlock tried to persuade the hospital to let him stay with John even after his discharge, but the hospital put their foot down; something about ‘interfering with patients ability to get proper rest at night’. Hospital policy, however, did not stop Sherlock from arriving at John’s room first thing in the morning, and leaving well after visiting hours ended.

Once his doctors and nurses were satisfied that John was on his way to recovery, John too was discharged home.

 

“I don’t see why I can’t.” Sherlock protested when his mother told him that, no, he was not moving in to the Watson’s house while John recuperated.

“Because I need you home. I need to know you’re safe in your own bed, under my roof where I can protect you. I don’t care how old you are, you’re still my baby,” Sherlock grimaced at that, “and I was out of my mind not know where you were, or what happened.”

“Well then can John stay with us?” Sherlock asked.

“We did offer, but George wants John home too. I know what you’re going to say, but I think this experience really opened his eyes. I think he’s turning over a new leaf, and I think we ought to let them have this chance to repair their relationship.”

Like with the hospital, his parents insistence he return home every night, didn’t mean Sherlock wasn’t on the Watson’s front step every morning, staying with John far into the evening. His mother didn’t even bother arguing with him when he refused to return to school without John. In return, Sherlock didn’t argue with her when she insisted she be the one to drive him to and from John’s home every day, it was glaringly obvious how worried she still was.

For the first few days John didn’t feel like doing much of anything, still in pain and exhausted, and Sherlock never found doing nothing more enjoyable in his life. He would walk through the front door in the mornings, and immediately climb on to the couch and fold himself up against John. They spent hours laying together, watching crap telly, reading, talking about nonsense, or dozing wrapped in each other’s arms. Sherlock even monitored John’s healing, checking and changing bandages when needed.

“You know, I could get use to this.” John smirked as Sherlock brought in the takeaway. “Having a full service boyfriend.”

Sherlock had to duck his head, trying to hide the blush creeping up his face. Boyfriend. He was John Watson’s boyfriend. John Watson was his boyfriend. He didn’t think he’d ever get use to that.

“Well don’t.” Sherlock said, setting the bag down and grabbing some plates from the kitchen. “This isn’t a permanent arrangement. Though I do like the idea of you being totally dependent on me, you’d never dream of leaving…”

“Wasn’t going to do that anyway.”

“Exactly, so this is just because you’re an invalid. The second you stop milking your injuries, and that shoulder is better, everything goes back to normal, and I’ll be your normal boyfriend.” John pouted, adorably, not that Sherlock would admit it to him. “Ok,  _maybe_ I’ll still cater to you from time to time – if you’re not too annoying.” Sherlock sighed.

“I can live with that.” John said, grabbing Sherlock by the collar to pull him down into a kiss. “Now give me that lo mein!”

 

They weren’t left completely alone, getting quite a few visitors, some less welcome than others. A handful of reporters showed up looking for interviews, all of whom were ignored, their rescue was the flavor of the week, it would all blow over eventually.

Greg stopped by a few days after John returned home with an update. As expected, Moran had refused to roll over on Moriarty.

“But you don’t have to worry, we have Moran and he’s going away for a long time.”

“Please,” Sherlock huffed, sinking back into the couch, “he’ll be out within a year.”

“Not with the case we’re building.” Said Greg, all determination and confidence. Well, someone had to believe in the police, Sherlock thought. “Kidnapping, torture, attempted murder, he’s up a creek. We are probably going to need you two to testify at the trial, though.”

“Happy to.” John sneered. “Just name the time and place.”

“Excellent!”

“It doesn’t matter how many years he gets, Moran is still going to be out before the New Year.” Sherlock said once Greg had left, his hand carding through John’s hair.

“How do you know?” John asked, lifting his head from where it rested on Sherlock’s chest, looking Sherlock in the eye.

“Because he’s wasn’t just some hired muscle, he’s too loyal. Moran is Moriarty’s number two.”

“Didn’t think someone like Moriarty would put much stock into things like loyalty.” John scoffed.

“He doesn’t, Moran is just of more use to him free than behind bars or dead. If that changes, he’ll drop him without a second thought.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Oi! None of that now!” John said, using his good arm to make Sherlock look at him.

“None of what?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and you have to stop. You are absolutely nothing like him. You have a heart, you have a conscience.”

Sherlock had to smile, John always could see through his facades, past his walls, could always read him like a book.  Or maybe Sherlock just never tried to keep him out. “If you say so.”

“I do.” John murmured against his lips, then proceeded to wipe all thoughts of Moriarty and Moran from Sherlock’s mind. He could get used to this not thinking lark.

 

Almost half their year decided to see them, to tell them how worried they were, how relieved they were that John and Sherlock were safe. Well, that might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but it certainly felt like half the year paraded themselves through the Watson home. A few of John’s football mates wanted to know when John would be ready to join them on the field again. John must have read the look of horror on Sherlock’s face, and nipped that idea in the bud; ‘ _just reffing for a while I think’_ , he joked. Molly checked in often; and though she did bring a couple of her friends with her a few times, Sherlock couldn’t really complain too much, she kept them apprised of all the rumors flying, after all.

Sherlock was annoyed when someone showed up, interrupting and splitting John’s attention, but John seemed happy, always the people pleaser. Every time the doorbell rang, and another friend or acquaintance walked in, John had a grin on his face that made the distraction possibly worth it. That was until one Victor Trevor popped in to say hello, and express how happy to see Sherlock safe and sound, both of them safe he corrected. Sherlock had to bite his cheek to keep himself from laughing at the scrunched up frown John sported for Victor’s entire visit. He almost lost circulation to his hand due to how tightly John held it, their fingers laced together.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous.” Sherlock smiled, once Victor had finally left.

“What? Jealous? No!” John sputtered, embarrassed. “Maybe… Alright, fine, yes! But can you blame me?”

Sherlock pulled John down on top of him, trying to coax the frown off his face with gentle kisses. “You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of.”

“Well he clearly likes you!” John said, fighting to maintain the frown.

“Yeah, well I clearly  _love_ you.”

That did the trick, John practically melted into Sherlock’s embrace. “Mmmmmm… very true.” He hummed, following Sherlock’s lead.

“Besides, maybe I should be the jealous one. Sarah, Jeannette, Myra, they were all so concerned about you.” Teased Sherlock, angling away from John’s lips.

“Ah, but I’m pretty sure the love bite on my neck you keep refreshing,” John said, lifting up to support himself on his good shoulder, “is a clear sign that I’m happily taken.”

“Too right! Because. You. Are. Mine!” Sherlock growled, surging up to recapture John’s mouth, kissing him fiercely.

“Always, always yours.” John sighed when it was time to breathe again. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you, John Watson. More than anything.” Sherlock’s breath hitched a bit as he spoke; he didn’t think there’d be a day he’d tire of those words, hearing or saying them.

“Now, I believe there is a love bite that requires a touching up.” And Sherlock latched himself onto John’s neck, earning himself a giggle from his boyfriend, his best friend, his love, his John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny story, so my mom had surgery a few years ago, and my sister and I wanted to get her a 'get well' prize from the gift shop. We got her a stuffed boat full of pirate dogs. The gift shop lady figured it was for a little kid, and not a woman with two grown children.
> 
> So, next chapter is the epilogue where we catch up and see if these two were correct when they dreamed of a happy future together!
> 
> You know the drill, I love comments and corrections!!


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight years later, did these two manage to make it work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, we've made it, the last chapter! Enjoy!

Sherlock was awake; the moonlight streaming in through the window illuminated the sleeping man curled next to him, highlighting his strong features, turning his handsome face into something utterly breathtaking. But then again, John had been taking Sherlock’s breath away for years. As he laid in bed, watching John sleep – his eyes moving behind closed lids – Sherlock couldn’t help but reflect on the life he lead with this man by his side.

 

~***~

 

Arm still in a sling, John had been deemed healed enough to return to school after two and a half weeks recuperating at home. There was practically no time left in the term, and the school had already worked out an independent study scheme, but John wanted to do something to feel normal again. There were rumors, _John really ran away and Sherlock was just covering for him_ or _they planned on running away together to elope but Sherlock chickened out_ , or Sherlock’s personal favorite, _John had gotten into a fight and accidentally killed someone and had to hide out until Sherlock successfully framed Jay_. The rumors were ridiculous, the endless questions were tiresome, but John and Sherlock faced them all head on, together. Mostly they just ignored everyone, save for a select few, and did their work. The school even allowed them to walk in graduation, with the understanding they still had to complete their independent study.

The biggest surprise came when John was allowed to sit make up A-levels; Sherlock opted to take the exams with the rest of their year. The entire thing reeked of Mycroft, who seemed to be moving up the government ladder at a startling pace. But it all meant that John would not have to defer his university entrance, and their plans didn’t have to be disrupted; so Sherlock was not going to complain about Big Brother pulling strings. John started his medical training on schedule, while Sherlock read Chemistry. Sherlock got an apartment that first summer, and despite Sherlock’s well reasoned arguments, John didn’t move it with him until the start of their second year; at least not officially. They never lived apart again.  

Sherlock continued to build his relationship with the Yard, and soon became ‘Sherlock Holmes: World’s Only Consulting Detective’. He was assisted, of course, by John Watson: trainee trauma surgeon / part-time blogger. They would run through the street of London, and fall into bed at night to wake in the mornings, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Eight months into his twenty year sentence, Sebastian Moran and three other inmates disappeared from their cells without a trace. It took two years for Moran to show his face again, supposedly masterminding a series of kidnappings, and turning the innocent victims into would be suicide bombers. Sherlock played the game, John right there with him, the victims were rescued, Moran was back in police custody, and the true mastermind orchestrating the entire dance was neither seen nor caught.

As much as they may have hoped otherwise, Moriarty did reappear a few times; different names each time, but always him. It was never enough to catch him; just enough to make sure they never forgot he was out there, to make sure they knew he hadn’t forgotten them. But Sherlock would catch him one day, Moriarty would slip up, he would make a mistake, and Sherlock would be there to see it happen.

 

~***~

 

“Quit staring at me, and go to sleep.” John’s said as he cuddled closer into Sherlock’s embrace, his voice heavy with sleep. “Big day tomorrow.” He yawned.

Startled out of his thoughts – he hadn’t even realized John was awake – Sherlock glanced over at the matching morning suits handing on the wardrobe. “You know, there’s still time to run away. Come on, just you and me, isn’t that better?” He sighed, rolling John on to his back, and sat up to straddle John’s waist.

“Pretty sure that ship sailed the second you told your mum.” John yawned again, but looked more awake.

“Knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”  Sherlock muttered, sitting back a bit on to John’s bent legs.

“You poor thing, having to deal with an excited mother; I think you’ll live.” John teased. “So why were you creeping on my while I slept? What’s going on in that mad head of yours?” He asked, absentmindedly running his hands along Sherlock’s thighs, sending a shiver up Sherlock’s spine.

“I was not ‘creeping’ on you.” Sherlock feigned shocked offence. “I was just thinking.”

“You’re always thinking, so what’s going on up there now? Not getting cold feet, are you?” John chuckled, trying to sound calm, but Sherlock could hear the nervous edge to John’s voice. The idiot, to think Sherlock would have any doubts.

“My feet have never been warmer.” Sherlock hummed, bending down to brush his lips lightly against John’s. “I was just thinking about everything we’ve been through, everything that’s brought us here, brought us to this moment.” He sighed, sitting up again, his right hand coming to rest over the starburst shaped scar on John’s shoulder.

“And I wouldn’t change a single second of it.” John said softly, covering Sherlock’s hand with his own, his skin soft and warm. “Well, maybe some things.” He muttered, his fingers moving up to outlining the faint scar running down Sherlock’s otherwise pristine neck; a souvenir from their last encounter with Moriarty three years previous.

“Absolutely not!” Sherlock gasped. “The special treatment that particular injuring received, was well worth the wound.” He leaned down to once again to kiss John, this time with much more force, much more intent. Rolling his hips a bit, Sherlock let out a moan, at both the memory of John’s lips moving along the healing scar all those years ago, and at the feel of John presently rocking up to meet his hips. Lips parting, John’s tongue swept into his mouth, deepening the kiss, Sherlock gasped as he was quickly flipped over and pinned to the bed. He was powerless to do anything, he loved it, and gave up control to John. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, letting out another throaty moan, as John ground down, their mutual want sliding against each other through the thin fabric of their pajama bottoms.

“Wait, wait. No, love, we should stop.” John, flushed and panting, broke the kiss and pushed himself off Sherlock.

“No don’t! Why?” Sherlock whimpered, trying to pull John back down and recapture his mouth. He needed John’s pressure, his body back against his, he needed John’s lips, his tongue, his teeth. He needed John.

“I’m not going to shag you with your parents in the room directly above us.” John laughed, nosing along Sherlock’s jaw, kissing his pulse point. Sherlock thought the mixed signals would kill him.

“Why not? It’ll hardly be the first time you and I have had sex while my parents are in the same building.” Sherlock whined, silently cursing his parents for accepting John’s offer to stay with them, and cursing Mycroft for not offering a room in his house.

“True,” John nodded, “but all those times they were on the other side of a huge house, or in a separate hotel room with very thick walls.” He added.  

Lifting his head off the pillow, Sherlock latched on to John’s neck, nipping at the juncture between his jaw and ear, John’s weak spot. “I promise I’ll be quiet.” He mumbled, his voice dropping an octave into what John liked to call ‘going velvet’. If that didn’t work, Sherlock honestly didn’t know what would.

“I have about eight years of experience telling me  _that’s_ not possible.” John laughed, sounding a bit short of breath.

He did have a point, Sherlock thought; remember all their times together. From the first time crawling into John’s lap after John’s last physical therapy session; the feel of John slowly, if a bit awkwardly, opening him up, the feeling of sinking down onto John, John pushing up into him, John flipping them over, of him digging his fingers in to John’s back, crying out as John took him apart. Then there was their first flat with the shoddy boiler, and all the winter nights they had to keep each other warm. He remembered when they officially moved in to 221B, John rewarding him for each box unpacked, by agreeing to  _christen_ another surface of the flat. And oh god, the weekend they decided to spend the rest of their lives together, where they only made brief, wobbly legged journeys between the kitchen and the bed, and Mrs. Hudson was forced to go to her sister’s – there was only so much noise she could ignore. He thought of just three days ago, barely making it through the door of 221B before pinning John against the wall, wrapping John’s legs around his waist, driving himself in deeper and deeper, John surrounding him in every way possible, chanting John’s name over and over again until it was the only word, only sound, Sherlock knew. There was absolutely no way around it, John had unique and definite way of drawing all kinds of noises from him.

“Besides,” John smirked, pressing his leg up hard against Sherlock, “we can’t have you sore and limping down the aisle, now can we?” He practically growled, before giving one last thrust and rolling over to lie next to Sherlock. Oh, John was most assuredly going to be the death of him, Sherlock thought.

“Uhh, fine.” Sherlock’s groan came out more like a whimper. “But the second we get to Verona, we’re not leaving our suite for at least two days!” He huffed, turning to face John. “And you’re not allowed a single stitch of clothing. I’ll burn them if I have to.”

“Sounds perfect. But no clothes for you either.” John grinned wickedly, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist, and tangling their legs together. “Now get some sleep, I’m making an honest man of you in the morning.”

 

As it turned out, they didn’t even have to wait until Verona. Once on the privet jet, and cruising safely at 41,000 feet, Sherlock had John stretched out beneath him, and slowly took him into his body over and over again, John’s brand new sliver band cool against Sherlock’s hip, a matching band wrapped around Sherlock’s finger, never to be removed. They had made love numerous times, and in numerous ways over the years; there was slow and passionate, catering to each other’s every need; there was fast and rough, desperate and needing the other at that moment and unable to wait. All of them exhilarating, all of them heart stoppingly brilliant, but lying in a nest of pillows and blankets in the back of a private jet – he was nothing if not prepared – wrapped around the love of his life, consumed by him, Sherlock was the first to admit that married sex was the best sex they’d ever had.

He had a lifetime of this, of loving and being loved by John Watson – his  _husband_ , John Watson – ahead of him, and Sherlock Holmes could not wait to get started. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who as read, kudo'd, and commented on this fic. I really enjoyed writing it, and I really hope you enjoyed reading it. 
> 
> A special thanks to those of you who left comments on almost every chapter. Seeing those notices and seeing you actively enjoying my work, made it all worth it, and makes me want to keep writing!


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